
























* * 


x v-w-v <\ **. ✓ w 

0^ i 0 * c * ’%"“*' -A S s .'"«,'*o. * / « ,sc '/^ 




; x° °x 

> * "’” <^° s' * * rj%. ' ’ N ”•’ / *»*•■- 

r ,'V > * ^ aV - 

r cP \V 



^ v 

o 0 

X * c 5 ^ " 

^ * v ^ * 



V 7 0 * X ^ o N c ^ ^ 7 * * S ^ 


V * 



O «%>** 

O ^ *+ o TO , * 

♦ v *> fl v 

‘A G 

.V ,v’ 8 « 

^ ^ ** ^ 

^ f ///*5L 4> 

<* O 

■* © cr 

o '*-■>* ^ * 

% ° H V N ^* 0 ' > 

» - s s V : 

* <*? <<• * 

r/\ o « c ■, ^ ‘ **' A' .' 1 * * 

L I * r-SSN\ ^ ■ “ V. *J> 

'Tt V' 

5#V *- < ^ /t ' s' (xJ C o y 







V&' ' .- * . 5 > . 




+ -* * % 

_ V. 1 * * a\ <• ' 1 * * cF - 0 N c k vX * 

« , ^v -* ~S rv .A ^ a- <P v 

" .-^ ~' v 
.0 o 

X X. — — ^ X x 



* o o > 

* r 0 J -o. * 

/Or . s * * r . h' , 
\V , s ^ *t x>' 

/a •* ^ 



^ O 

tr * 

^ 7 0 * x " A 0 N C -<*> 

* c> ,0 t° # „ ^ 


r^ 

© 

% 

<A 

V 

<* 

« * ^ 

z 

o 


<v 

7- fyy/m * 
( f //r&r 
© Cf// #«< 

f|? * v> 

N \>J *■ * *> 



•> v £r ^ 

i> ^ 

£> -A 



© 

■%V^>^l'^V''‘ cP'.- 


* j6 v <- v i 

a N r; ^ A N ^ V ‘ 

^ A ^ 4 . 



aV * .KsTW A, ^ c^> 













































TORQUIL’S SUCCESS 


NOVELS BY THE SAME AUTHOR 


HALF IN EARNEST 
EARTH 

APRIL PANHASARD 

THE MAN WITH THE DOUBLE HEART 

THE INDIVIDUAL 

AUTUMN 

THE BEST IN LIFE 
THE HIDDEN VALLEY 
THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


TORQUIUS SUCCESS 

by a / 

MURIEL HINE 


NEWYORK: JOHN LANE COMPANY 
LONDON : JOHN LANE THE BODLEY HEAD LTD. 
MCMXXII 



Copyright, 1921 

By JOHN LANE COMPANY 


DEC 29 1921 


PRINTED IN THE U. S. A. 



©CI.A654053 


TO 

MY GODSON 

ERIC BROOKS 


Because God put His adamantine fate 
Between my sullen heart and its desire, 

I swore that I would burst the Iron Gate, 

Rise up, and curse Him on His throne of fire. 
Earth shuddered at my crown of blasphemy, 

But Love was as a flame about my feet; 

Proud up the Golden Stair I strode; and beat 
Thrice on the Gate, and entered with a cry 

All the great courts were quiet in the sun, 

And full of vacant echoes; moss had grown 
Over the glassy pavement, and begun 
To creep within the dusty council-halls. 

An idle wind blew round an empty throne 
And stirred the heavy curtains on the walls. 


Rupert Brooke 


PART I 

THE IRON GATE 














































































































TORQUIL’S SUCCESS 


CHAPTER I 


T 


ORQUIL wrote. 

In the still room the only sound was the steady 


scratch of his pen, that tried in vain to keep pace with 
the phrases forming in his brain. At moments the words 
would run together, to be cut by a bisecting line, vicious as a 
dagger-thrust ; at others the point of his pen would find a 
liaw in the woody surface, splutter and leave a star of ink. 
Torquil had no time to blot it. The page covered, he would 
frown, tear it off impatiently and drop it on the shabby 
carpet, strewn with its predecessors. His fountain pen had 
run dry and he dipped it now in the ink-pot. His flexible 
brows were drawn together in the effort of concentration ; 
his body burned, his mouth was parched. Aware of physical 
discomfort, he could not connect cause and effect; he was 
lost in a world far removed from the intolerable stuffy 
room with its stained walls and blackened ceiling. 

Hours before, in a sudden rage, he had sprung up and 
closed the window in the face of a mournful gentleman 
with a cornet pressed to his lips. Barrel organs were 
torture enough, but this lost soul with his single dirge, 
who took up his stand, dusk after dusk, with a meek air of 
ownership in Torquil’s own strip of gutter, roused the 
young author’s murderous instincts. 

Since then, the staling air in the room had acquired new 
properties. From below a smell of burnt gas rose and was 
blent with that of cooking. Suddenly the burners flared 


2 


TORQUIL’S SUCCESS 

in the twin bracket over the table. The kitchen stove had 
been extinguished and the jets responded to added pressure. 
They whistled shrilly and fretted his nerves, but Torquil’s 
mouth merely tightened, his pen drove on as before. The 
end of the chapter was in sight. He was upheld on in- 
visible wings by the joy and fulfilment of creation. A 
moment before * 

But there came a tap, and the door opened. A gaunt 
woman stood on the threshold, breathing across an untidy 
tray. 

“Yer supper,” she panted. 

Torquil swore. The woman, undeterred, advanced. 
An errant sheet of manuscript crackled under her heavy 
foot. The draught, filtering up from the basement, stirred 
others on the loose pile. Torquil, exasperated, rose, 
seized the tray and bumped it down on an empty chair 
against the wall. 

“Thanks.” 

She refused to take the hint. Her eyes, red-rimmed, 
small and furtive, met his absent stare with an open con- 
tempt, then fell and wandered to the table, settling on the 
tilted ink pot. Her blunt finger came down on the dingy 
cloth where the rims of plates had left greasy, indented 
circles and was raised again suspiciously. 

“Ink!” She exhibited the smear. “You’ll ’ave to 
pay for that, young man. It was new on when you came. 
And wasting the gas!” She reached up an arm to lower 
the jet and revealed a gap where a strained sleeve had 
parted from the untidy bodice, which lacked buttons and 
was pinned across her shrunken bosom. 

Torquil felt suffocating. 

“That will do,” he said shortly, taking up his pen again. 

ft Will it?” She jeered at him, and produced a crumpled 
piece of paper. “I’d be obliged if you’d pay this — yer 
washing bill, as you’ve forgot !” 

He took it from her mechanically. 

“I’ll pay it to-morrow.” 


THE IRON GATE 3 

“You’ll pay it to-night.” Her red-rimmed eyes were 
full of malice. “It’s for last week.” 

Torquil’s control snapped. 

“Oh, clear out!” he shouted at her. 

She backed instinctively to the door. 

“That’s right — bully a widder! If my old man was 
alive, ’e’d tell you off. Yes, ’e would! But I’ve ’ad about 
enough of this — mucking up the front room, and ’ot meals 
cooked at night. It don’t pay me to keep yer !” 

Torquil choked down a retort. He was longing to give 
the woman notice, but the place was cheap and he owed her 
rent. He stooped, picked up the crumpled page and 
smoothed it out with hands that shook. His silence was the 
last straw ; the landlady boiled over : 

“It’s you that’ll ’ave to ‘clear out’! A week to-day — 
so now yer know! The card goes up in the winder to- 
morrer.” 

“Then you’d better clean it first,” said Torquil, in his 
sudden relief at the turn* of affairs. “And the room, too, 
for a change !” 

He sat down and took up his pen, deaf to the woman’s 
parting tirade. At last, he heard the door slam. He tried 
to collect his scattered thoughts, but the vision had fled. 
He wrote a line and crossed it through impatiently. Brain 
and body felt empty. He awoke to the fact of the latter’s 
needs. No food had passed his lips since breakfast. Gather- 
ing up the littered sheets, too weary now to read them 
through, he bundled them into the nearest drawer and 
gave his attention to the tray. He very rarely fed in the 
house, but a cold on his chest and the rain outside had 
overcome his objection. Now he was regretting the im- 
pulse. Beastly, that tepid, half-cooked chop! He broke 
off a mouthful of bread and found that he was ravenous. 
In a few minutes the plate was empty save for a clean- 
picked bone. 

He rolled himself a cigarette, lit it, and threw up the 
window. The evening breeze had dispersed the rain, and 
a longing for fresh air seized hm. As he stepped out into 


4 


TORQUIL’S SUCCESS 

the night, he caught the quavering, mournful notes of the 
cornet in the next street. The old man worked in a circle, 
its centre the public-house that topped the row of fla£ 
faced dwellings to which TorquiPs was a sample. Now he 
was coming back again to the starting-point of his adven- 
ture. 

“Like myself,” thought the young author in a sudden 
wave of bitterness. 

He quickened his stride, pursued anew by the old sordid 
memories. He was filled with a hatred of narrow streets, 
damp and sticky, tainted by the smell of unwashed human- 
ity. Poverty — how he loathed it! He passed a shuttered 
butcher’s shop, from which escaped a sour smell of saw- 
dust and raw meat, and a sharp spasm of nausea seized him 
— revived horror of boyhood days. He swerved to the 
left and found himself in the glare of the Vauxhall Bridge 
Road. Here was a sense of light and movement replacing 
that of stagnation, but the crowd on the pavement and in 
the trams held the same note of unending struggle for 
existence in the teeth of want. Reaching Victoria, he 
pressed on, already aware of a lightening in the moist 
atmosphere, a promise of leafy solitudes, the high branches 
straining up to a sky unbound and alive with stars. But 
when he had crossed the open space that holds a perpetual 
maze of traffic on which the low white arch looks down with 
an almost Oriental calm, he felt a sudden check to desire. 
Within lay the silent Park, yet he hesitated on the thres- 
hold. 

A white mist rose like a phantom, twisting its coils about 
the trees ; a brooding darkness hung over the grass. Close 
together, whispering, a pair of lovers stole past him, seeking 
those mysterious shades. They shamed him in his loneli- 
ness. Outwardly he would scoff at passion, but akin to his 
haunting fear of failure, was a secret dread of unknown 
depths. He shrank from such knowledge as only a man 
can who is drawn by the thing he hates, lured by its evil 
mystery. The Park would be full of the murmuring sounds 
that kindled his imagination; of figures pressed side by 


THE IRON GATE 5 

side, of a girl’s checked laugh or the sting of a kiss. Ner- 
vously he wheeled around and moved down the broad pave- 
ment, already drying and patched with white, for the moon 
was rising above the clouds. 

The chain of lamps in Piccadilly, that skipped downhill 
and up again to join in a single arrow of light, pointed his 
path. He was swept across with a little crowd that broke 
the moving line of traffic. But the vague restraint of hurry- 
ing people chafed him. He shook himself free and, racked 
by a fit of coughing, set his face towards Park Lane. 

It held a peculiar appeal to him, a part of his intimate 
dream of success. Here he would live when the dream 
came true. In a boyish mood, one afternoon, he had gone 
so far as to choose his house. It would not be a tall mansion, 
but one of those children of the Lane that cluster, wide- 
eyed, near Upper Brook Street, in between their grown-up 
neighbours. A little house in Park Lane — that would 
shelter a great author. He saw himself writing there, at a 
window that watched the growth of the trees and compared 
them to the puny mortals strutting forth to Church Parade 
in all their peacock finery. Torquil would never be one of 
these. His hatred of Society had been steadily fostered 
since the days of that unforgettable year at Cambridge, 
when he had caught at his first success — a popularity won 
by brains — rand held it for a brief span only to find himself 
hurled forth, an outcast through his own folly. Those 
leisurely youths who had offered him friendship, even 
asked him to their homes, then had dropped him when the 
crash came — now, they should see how much he cared! 
Pie pictured himself as a demi-god, utterly unapproachable 
but holding the listening ear of the world — a world thirsty 
for his writing. This was the supreme obsession but it 
held the germ of a lesser one. That stout, blustering, sandy 
man, whose very paternity he doubted and who dared to 
call him a “young wastrel” and bully his fragile mother, he 
should see what brains could achieve. He despised brains. 
Well, he should see! 

Torquil’s rancour fell away. He had come to the wider 


6 


TORQUIL’S SUCCESS 

space abutting on quiet Hertford Street, that slipped away 
to his right mysteriously into ebony shadows. The moon- 
light filled the immediate foreground, a silver lake cut by 
an island where some benefactor has erected an ornate 
drinking-trough for the friends of man, and where Park 
Lane, with a sudden flutter of irregular, creamy houses, 
emerges from obscurity, like a dainty dame shaking her 
skirts. 

The traffic hugged the Park rails; an air of aloofness 
hung about the tall mansions that gazed across lumbering 
bus and rackety taxi, and dreamed of torch and sedan chair 
in an age when manners outweighed money. 

Torquil’s revolt at class distinctions was confined to the 
present generation. Where history and tradition stepped 
in, the personal factor no longer counted. Romance be- 
longed to those past days and the spirit of adventure. A 
man could carve his own fortunes irrespective of his birth, 
with the help of a trusty sword, glib tongue and handsome 
presence. There was Romance in the air tonight, in the 
spring softness after rain. He stood, for a moment, in- 
dulging his fancy: the wet road that suggested water lap- 
ping against marble steps beneath the huddled palaces. A 
big, black car stole up, noiseless as a gondola, and was 
moored close to the further curb. No one descended — 
more mystery! Torquil started to cross the lagoon of 
moonlit macadam. 

“If it’s too deep, I can swim,” he thought, smiling at 
his own folly, yet with a real sense of adventure. 

So vivid was the illusion that he drew an instinctive 
breath of relief whon he reached the far pavement. His 
eyes raked the black car. Low-built, with its closed hood, 
it only needed the silver prow thrusting up beyond the 
felse and the chauffeur, rigid at the wheel, to rise and bend 
to his oar. 

As Torquil came abreast with it, the door of the house 
was opened wide, a servant emerged and flung down a roll 
of carpet, swiftly uncoiled and aided by a dexterous kick. 
It spanned the narrow, gleaming, path between the steps 


THE IRON GATE 


7 


and the “gondola” like a magic bridge, deep in moss. 

Torquil, checked in his advance by this unforeseen 
event, was involved suddenly in an absurd calculation. 
Should he stride across it, step on the carpet, or wait for 
the lawful owner to pass? That pampered magnificent 
whose buckled shoes were sacrosanct. 

Before he had time to decide the question, a figure moved 
through the lighted doorway and paused to fling a tasselled 
corner of her black cloak across one shoulder. Against the 
sombre depths of the velvet, her raised arm flashed like 
marble ; her face was ivory under the moon, the bare fore- 
head cut by a band of jet framing the arched brows. But, 
above this, her hair was aflame, drawn into a gleaming knot 
of copper on her shapely head. Her glance, cool and 
incurious, as she passed, flickered over Torquil. There was 
pride in every line of her features, and a superb self-assur- 
ance, though he judged her to be barely twenty. As she 
stepped into the car with a flutter of black tulle skirts he 
saw a single note of colour, the scarlet heels of her satin 
shoes. Then she was gone, swallowed up in that travesty 
of a gondola. It moved out noiselessly into the lake and 
sailed past the little island. 

Torquil was roused unpleasantly by a jerk beneath his 
feet and a grumbling order from the footman who was 
trying to roll up the carpet, on which the dreamer had in- 
fringed. He had stepped forward instinctively to watch 
the car swing round. Now, as quickly, he retreated, filled 
with a gathering resentment. The servant, too, had taken 
him for one of those shabby loiterers who hang about the 
abodes of the great where an awning or carpet announces a 
party: the poor wistfully looking on at the pageantry of 
wealth. 

It emphasized the gulf between Torquil’s ambitions and 
his life. Would he always remain a spectator, a portionless, 
unknown man? Heedless of where he went to escape the 
footman's insolent stare and the memory of those cold 
young eyes meeting his eager glance with disdain, he 
swerved off down Hertford Street, welcoming the quiet 


8 


TORQUIL’S SUCCESS 

shadows. But he could not banish that chiselled face with 
its startling contrast of creamy skin, drawn-back, vivid 
hair and its rich sable setting. She reminded him of a 
torch, the light flaming in the breeze, sparks about her little 
feet. 

He tramped on, finding relief in the swing of his long, 
supple limbs. She was like — who was it she resembled? 
Some one Torquil had once known. Or was this, too, a 
fantasy born of the mysterious night? 

He found himself in a strange place and looked around 
him wonderingly; at the paved space with its shuttered 
shops and its unfamiliar rural air, a little market tucked 
away in the heart of Mayfair. The name was posted up on 
the wall, “Shepherd’s Market.” Torquil’s mood insen- 
sibly lightened; he was caught by another fleeting fancy. 

Had there ever been shepherds here? Shepherds with 
snowy flocks of sheep, marshalled by a shaggy dog, faded 
cloaks on their lean shoulders, staff in hand, or a reed-pipe 
pressed to their wind-roughened lips, drawing echoes from 
the cobbles? Had they drifted down a Piccadilly that 
joined up with the fields and talked to the pedlars who 
eased their packs on the high shelf still facing the clubs? 

The lines of his mouth relaxed. Ghostly shapes stole up 
and blotted out the little shops. From far away came the 
faint toot of a motor-horn, sweet and piercing, that shivered 
off into silence. It brought vividly before him the picture 
of a royal coach, galloping madly out of London ; Charles, 
a spaniel on his knee, spurning Whitehall and the cold 
Queen for an “Orange girl” — diis dainty Nell — awaiting 
him in old Chelsea. 

A little breeze danced across the low roofs and he bared 
his head, letting it play on his smooth, black hair that held 
nothing of the rusty hue peculiar to the Northerner. With 
his faintly olive skin, and restless, dark-browed eyes, that 
could light up at the spur of excitement and sink to a slum- 
bering brown flecked by little hazel specks, a keen observer 
would have guessed at a strain of Latin blood. It showed, 
too, in his varying moods, his love of self-anaylsis, keen 


9 


THE IRON GATE 

\ision and swift brain. But in his dogged perseverance, his 
deep reserve towards his neighbour, and his bitter enforced 
chastity, tinged with a morbid dread of passion, there was 
nothing of Southern light-heartedness. His build con- 
formed to the British type, broad-shouldered, long-limbed. 
He bore the lingering results of drill, with a slight and 
unconscious swagger — a suggestion of putties and buckled 
belt — that seems to mark the new army. Now, as he 
smiled, pursuing his way among the phantoms of the past, 
his lean face looked boyish. He was swept by a sudden 
love of London, with its hidden treasure of dark by-ways, 
its history and its romance. He was a living part of it; of 
that ancient mysterious place, of a million lives and dreams 
and hopes, but still his own architect, building up the walls 
of the future around his defiant, lonely soul. 

Confident of his own powers, he lacked the foundation 
stone of money and influence. Once he could get a fair 
start, no obstacle on earth would stop him. If a man kept 
his eyes fixed solely on his goal, was ruthless to himself 
and others, resisting all weakness of the flesh, human ties 
and youthful pleasures, could fight poverty, hunger, depres- 
sion, success must surely come his way. 

As he passed out through the archway, he paused to 
make room for a crippled figure, swinging towards him on 
crutches. Thank God, he was spared that! He had come un- 
scathed through the years of war, mentally and physically. 
He had faced death, he could face life. A sudden exhilara- 
tion seized him. With the blood pulsing through his veins, 
he could have shouted aloud for joy. The memory of his 
landlady, with her drink-sodden countenance, rose up like 
some Hogarthian jest. It was over too; she was turning 
him out. To the chance of finding some wind-swept garret 
w ; th the silence of the roofs around him, swung above the 
mighty city. The hackneyed scheme of this background to 
genius brought a laugh to his lips. What a plagiarist he 
was! He might as well serve in a chemist’s shop and 
imagine himself a potential Keats. He grinned, then his 
face grew wistful. If only Merriman took his book! He 


10 


TORQUIL’S SUCCESS 

could say farewell to journalism in the petty form he 
loathed almost as much as the search for it ; to short stories 
that were a trick to capture editor and reader but an insult 
to his powers. 

“Fluff !” He cried the word aloud 

A painted face was turned to him. The owner smiled 
and hesitated, but, oblivious, he passed on into the stir of 
Piccadilly, and headed homewards, ready for sleep, to wake, 
clear-brained, on the morrow. To wake and work. What 
a golden thing work could be, spinning a thread like a busy 
spider out of self that would drift forth into the world and 
harness a man to success. . . . 

Hyde Park Corner, the whispering Park, Victoria with 
its stream of traffic and the distant rumble and hiss of 
trains as Torquil chose a street behind it. Then silence, 
dirt, the little houses, with close-packed humanity, rows on 
rows, greasy doorsteps, poverty and murky air. But above 
his head the stars shone, and on his feet were silver wings. 
Only outside the public-house at the corner of his road, did 
the thought — the prosaic thought — come to him that 
Shepherd’s Market most probably owed its name to some 
hoary capitalist. 

He refused to believe it. As well suggest that the flame 
maiden who had stepped into the waiting gondola had gone 
to tryst with a base lover and was now pressed against his 
heart, the wealth of her copper hair unloosed from its close 
filet, the proud lips parted in voluptuous curves. 

He felt for his latch-key and opened the door. As he 
closed it, in the letter-box, he; saw a single envelope 
and drew it forth. Addressed to himself, the typewriting 
suggested a bill, and he carried it into his room with a faint 
sinking of the heart, for he owed money to a tailor. He 
lighted the gas and reluctantly opened the letter, unfolding 
the page. For a moment his breath caught in his throat. 
At lastl He read with incredulous eyes. The publisher, 
in a guarded letter, admitted merit in “the book” and 
named an hour for an interview. 

Torquil read it through twice. Then he slipped down 


THE IRON GATE 


11 


on his knees and folded his arms across the sheet where it 
lay shining on the table. He hid his hot face on his sleeve, 
feeling the shamed tears well up. 

“I’ve done it!” he said chokingly; and praised the god 
he found in himself. 


CHAPTER II 


W HEN the Merrimans decided to take a house in 
the country as well as the one they had long 
rented in Bloomsbury, Josephine indulged in 
dreams of some old-world manor hidden away sleepily in a 
walled garden. It would be Tudor or Jacobean, with low 
ceilings and little steps that tripped up the unwary, powder 
closets and latticed windows. But her husband only 
laughed at her. 

His practical mind foresaw endless dilapidations and a 
lack of modern comfort that would impair his object: rest. 
His business tied him to London. He could rarely find 
time for a prolonged holiday; but week-ends were another 
matter, and the social side of his work could be fitted in 
pleasantly by bringing his friends to his country-house. 

Josephine welcomed the idea but held her own views on 
the choice of abode. Eventually they compromised by an 
early nineteenth-century house which lent itself to Chippen- 
dale chairs, and where lustres could hold a place but con- 
cealed electric light. 

A walled garden clinched the matter, together with an 
added joy in the shape of a little stone pavilion, at the corner 
butting on two roads, reared above the moss-grown coping 
and approached by five unseen steps. 

“Five is my lucky number,” Josephine pronounced 
gravely. 

She christened the little look-out tower “Sister Ann.” 
She also found a roomy attic, deep in cobwebs, suitable for 
Bluebeard's chamber. 

Merriman’s “discoveries” centred round two bath- 
rooms, recently added, and a garage that had been built for 

13 


THE IRON GATE 13 

the purpose and was not a sodden and draughty stable. 
They had suffered the usual disillusions of ‘‘orders to view” 
and agents’ descriptions. 

The house was built on the side of a hill with woods to 
the north and east of it, a protection from the cold winds. 
The rising ground in the rear successfully cut off the view 
of an ugly, but useful, little town with a station on the 
main line. Josephine accepted this neighbour with a 
divided mind. It was convenient for Richard, but it added 
a suburban touch. She could have borne with slow trains 
for the sake of a country siding and two white gates sug- 
gesting danger to anyone who crossed the line. 

“Only forty-five minutes to town,” the husband would 
say cheerfully, a twinkle in his deep-set eyes as he caught 
Josephine’s expression. 

He was devoted to this woman nearly twenty years his 
junior; and his love partook of a suspicion of fatherliness 
which prompted him to tease her like a favourite daughter. 
He rejoiced in her youth and the subtle strain of roman- 
ticism he found in her. Wisely, he realized the gulf between 
their ages and allowed her a free rein to her fancies, instead 
of permitting his burden of years to weigh on her fragile 
shoulders. He had his reward in the hours of trouble, 
when she gave him the wealth of tenderness and the eager 
compassion so often blunted by the insidious passage of 
Time. They were a very happy couple who had won 
through understanding. 

To compensate the disadvantage of their nearness to 
London, Josephine had only to stand at the front windows 
?nd be filled with a sense of peace and wonder. Here was 
“ real country.” The wide expanse of wooded vale splashed 
by the grey of some old farm like a lover’s knot in the 
twisting lanes, was beautiful when the sun poured down on 
fields of corn and grassy meadows, and full of mystery when 
the rain wreathed the far-off hills in shadows. A little 
hamlet was tucked away in a fold beneath the sloping 
paddock that bordered the croquet lawn, and the spire of a 
church, with a weather-cock — that never moved but fondly 


14 


TORQUIL’S SUCCESS 

pointed due south through all the seasons — rose above a 
spinney of firs marking the Merriman’s boundary. 

Their neighbours were few, but included a certain 
author of repute, whose work Merriman had published in 
his early days, to lose later, but who still remained a friend. 
They were linked by tastes in common and by that peculiar 
esteem which often results from a healed quarrel between 
two Englishmen. They never alluded to the rupture, but it 
added a spice when they disagreed in some literary argu- 
ment. 

David Heron’s work now stood above minor criticism. 
He ranked as a foremost essayist. It had been Merriman’s 
misfortune to overlook what seemed at the time a remote 
possibility. They had fallen out over terms, and Heron 
had taken his work elsewhere, to achieve a success that was 
not due solely to large sales but was based on the merit of 
his writing. A peculiarly modest man, he refused to have 
his head turned, avoided Society, and gave himself up to 
his two loves: those of his work and of the country. He 
had bought, before the Merrimans came to Westwick, a 
picturesque little dwelling which had started life as a way- 
side inn, falling into dsrepute. It was pure Jacobean, with 
a timbered front and beamed ceilings, and Heron had 
cleverly enlarged it by linking the original structure to the 
barn that huddled against its side, now transformed into 
his study. The addition of windows, a deep fire-place and 
an oak floor had worked wonders, without destroying its 
ancient charm. Bats still sheltered occasionally in the 
vault of the raftered roof, to issue forth after sunset and 
swoop down on the pergolas where the roses clung in heavy 
clusters. Sitting in his study window, Heron’s gaze would 
follow the curves of the two approaching lines of poles, 
wreathed in delicate foliage that narrowed round a plot of 
turf to extend again — in the shape of an hour-glass — and 
shelter a small paved court, where teak-wood seats found a 
home, ruthlessly crushing the tiny plants that had seeded 
themselves in the cracks of the stones. Through the gap 
beyond he could see the old orchard, a mass of blossom in 


THE IRON GATE 15 

the spring, and always a restful note of green and grey, 
with the gnarled boughs grotesquely twisted above the 
grass. 

To Josephine, Heron’s house was perfect. Merriman 
might openly swear when he hit his head against the beam 
that the owner had learnt to avoid, which traversed the low- 
roofed hall, once the bar-parlour of the inn; he might 
grumble about “inconvenience” as he swarmed up the 
steep, twisting stairs, but, to her, the deep ingle nook where 
the logs lay piled by the open gate, with a cunning stone 
ledge above for pewter pots and jars of baccy, brought a 
whiff of bygone days that stirred her quick imagination. 

Heron, his strong, ugly face in shadow, would squat on 
a three-legged stool which he swore had belonged to a local 
witch and draw word-pictures for her: of lonely strangers 
lured to the inn, robbed and murdered; of highwaymen 
dicing away their ill-gotten gains, smuggled brandy at their 
elbows, their horses hidden in the barn ; of coiners, ruffians 
and broken gallants lying on the floor above to snatch a 
few hours’ needed sleep in this haunt far off the high roads 
down a lane unknown to county maps. 

She was an eager listener — that stimulus to creative 
thought. In return, Heron, against the grain, would fill a 
gap at her table, at short notice, when she had guests ; talk 
Merriman into a good temper if business went wrong in 
town; be a neighbour in its fullest sense, some one on 
whom she could rely. Theirs was that rare friendship 
which scorns advice and interference. If Heron liked his 
study dusty, his pewter the colour of old lead, and allowed 
himself to be cheated by the ancient couple who served his 
needs — his early peas filched and sold, his meals left cool- 
ing on the table when, utterly absorbed in work, he con- 
founded the hours of lunch and dinner — that was the 
author’s own concern. Help him she did in many ways, 
most of all by her sympathy and steady, tranquil affection. 
But only when he asked her opinion did she proffer a sug- 
gestion. 

Her husband slyly chaffed her about Heron’s obvious 


16 


TORQUIL’S SUCCESS 

admiration. She had “drawn the old hermit out of his 
shell.” But he, too, found their neighbour useful. Ten 
years younger than Merriman, Heron’s outlook was far less 
cramped by the early traditions of publishing. He divined 
the trend of public opinion towards the literature of the 
day. Merriman might argue with him, but he valued his 
friend’s judgment, above all, his fastidious instinct. He 
was rarely at fault as a critic. 

Josephine sometimes wondered what Westwick Place 
would be without him. He had slipped insepsibly into 
their lives during the past six years, when, from making 
the house a week-end resort with a longer spell in the 
summer, it had become their real home, Bloomsbury but a 
pied-a-terre. 

The thought flashed across her now as she stood at the 
foot of a short ladder, handing up the strips of cloth whilst 
Heron patiently nailed a creeper on the flat bosom of 
“Sister Ann.” It was a rare kind of clematis that her 
neighbour had found for her and planted on her last birth- 
day and a source of anxiety to them both. Would it stand 
the Westwick winds that swept down from the Chilterns 
in the winter months and flooded the garden, in despite of 
the woods and the high old wall ? 

Heron discarded a blunted nail. 

“Sister Ann is uncommonly hard. It’s a quality that 
sometimes results from a forlorn and protracted patience. 
I’ve often wondered if she had a secret romance of her 
own.” 

“She will have, when she’s wreathed in flowers,” 
Josephine laughed at him. 

“Like Carrie at the Hunt Ball,” Heron suggested 
wickedly. 

“Don’t insult Sister Ann ! Fancy comparing her to 
Carrie.” Josephine turned her head. Her quick ear had 
caught the sound, far off, of steps on the gravel. 
“Oh, David, here she is ! Why ever did you speak of 
her ?” 

“Telepathy — or the instinct of love.” Heron viciously 


THE IRON GATE 17 

drove in a nail. It was an old joke between them that 
Carrie set her cap for him. 

“She must have seen you over the wall.” His fellow- 
gardener, on tip-toe, help up a last strip of cloth. “You’ll 
have to come down and help me, David. I can’t tackle her 
alone.” 

“I’ll bet you sixpence she’s come to sell something or 
other, or else to borrow teaspoons or the lawn-mower.” 

“And she’ll talk of pigs,” said Josephine. “A subject 
that always unnerves me. Tell me, quick, how many 
piglets can a pig have — a generous pig?” 

Heron’s laugh shattered the peace. 

“Now you’ve done it,” his hostess scolded. “I might 
have pretended you weren’t here. I suppose I ought to go 
and meet her?” 

“Why?” He resented being left. “She has legs, 
hasn’t she? There’s precious little doubt about it — the 
ugliest pair I ever saw.” 

“David !” Josephine rebuked him. “She can’t help the 
shape, poor girl.” 

“Well, she might, at least, cover them up,” Heron 
grumbled from the' ladder. 

“She’ll hear you! Do get down, David, and be as 
pleasant as you can.” Josephine stooped to coaxing. “We 
have to put up with her, because of her dear old people. 
I always feel sorry for them.” 

“/ don’t. It’s their fault that Carrie ever came to 
Westwick. The Colonel quarrelled with his brother for 
forty years, then accepted the daughter as a loving legacy. 
Rank weakness, I call it. And he lets her rule the whole 
house.” 

“He’s too old to stand her temper. He takes the line of 
least resistance. Carrie is too much for me, so I don’t 
wonder he gives in. And his wife is almost an invalid. I 
think you are very hard-hearted.” 

“If you look at me so severely I shall drop the hammer 
on you,” said Heron. But he scrambled down, penitent. 

Up the wide gravel path, between the space devoted to 


18 


TORQUIL’S SUCCESS 

fruit and the wall with its herbaceous border, came the 
lank figure of a girl with a basket on her arm. Her long 
face, studded with freckles, was crowned by a battered hat 
of limp straw held together by a rusty black ribbon. 

She wore a short and shapeless skirt that sagged at the 
back from a petersham belt with a regimental buckle, and 
above this was a cotton shirt open at her bony neck, which 
was burnt to the curious ginger colour that the sun leaves 
on a coarse white skin. Wisps of carroty hair escaped from 
a net that crushed the remainder tucked into a bun sup- 
porting her hat. It added the last touch to a deliberate 
contempt for fashion. 

Josephine advanced to meet her with a forced cheerful- 
ness, but Carrie ignored her pleasant greeting and un- 
burdened herself of a grievance. 

“Eve been looking for you everywhere ! The servants 
said you were on the lawn. Oh, how do you do, Mr. Heron ?” 
Her sour face suddenly brightened as the author joined the 
pair. “I thought you must have gone to town ? We haven’t 
seen you for weeks.” 

“I’ve been working,” said Heron, shaking hands. 

“At a new book? What’s the name?” 

“It hasn’t got so far as that.” Heron wisely temporized. 

Carrie stared at him, with a gathering suspicion. 

“But don’t you write the name first ?” 

Josephine hurried to the rescue and created a diversion. 

“Eggs?” She peered into the basket and brought 
disaster on herself. 

“Yes. I thought you might like to buy some. Mrs. 
Delaporte’s still away and I’ve a dozen to spare this week. 
I heard your fowls weren’t laying well, so I tramped across 
to give you the chance.” 

Heron glanced at Josephine’s face, and promptly 
shouldered the burden. 

“/’ll take them.” 

“No,” said his hostess. “I really need some.” She had 
guessed his unselfish purpose. 

“Oh, that’s all right,” Carrie remarked, a gleam of 


THE IRON GATE 


19 


cupidity in her eye. “I’ve plenty more for Mr. Heron. 
We can use the pickled ones. These are new-laid — at 
market price.” 

Josephine limply acquiesced. It cost her an effort to- 
inquire if her visitor wished for tea. To her relief, Carrie 
declined the invitation. 

“I must get back. I’m very busy — a new litter of pigs 
last night.” 

“How exciting!” Heron smiled. He dared not look 
at Josephine. There was a quiver in his voice as he added 
solemnly, “How many?” 

“Thirteen,” said Carrie proudly. 

“Not a very lucky number,” Heron suggested as they 
turned in the direction of the house. 

“I’m not troubled by superstition.” Carrie gave a little 
snort. 

“But then you’re so fortunate.” Heron stared straight 
before him. “You have only to wave a wand, like Circe, 
and your pig-stys overflow. It’s a rare gift.” 

He repressed a shudder as the girl advanced a heavy boot 
and deliberately crushed a fat slug that had wandered out 
from the border. She seemed to enjoy the proceeding. 

They moved up the path together, Mrs. Merriman in 
the centre. Heron was caught by the contrast of her 
delicate, pensive face and the bony profile of the girl with 
its high-bridged nose and sullen mouth. Josephine always 
reminded him of moonlight on a summer stream. Her 
charm was not of regular beauty, but of elusive mood and 
expression. Her own sex did not admire her — which, 
perhaps, was fortunate, as friendship rarely survives envy 
— but she appealed to the type of man to whom fragility 
and grace bring a wistful charm and provocation. Heron 
would have died for her, but he kept the secret locked in 
his breast. 

“You’ve plenty of sunflowers,” said Carrie abruptly. 

“Are you fond of them ?” 

Josephine paused before a royal group that turned golden 
faces to their god. 


20 


TORQUIL’S SUCCESS 

“Pm fond of the seeds for my fowls. Ours have done 
badly this summer.” 

Josephine took the hint: 

“Then you must have some of mine.” 

“Thanks. Til come and fetch them later. With those 
damsons you promised me. You remember ?” 

Her hostess nodded. Heron opened the door in the wall 
with unnecessary vigour, his ugly face like that of a mastiff 
annoyed by some puny mongrel. 

“I hear you’re taking riding lessons,” he remarked as 
they crossed the lawn. “Going to hunt next winter?” 

“No.” Carrie gave him a glance at once shrewd and 
suspicious. “Now Uncle Tom’s given up his motor, it’s 
difficult to get about, and I thought I could ride the cob 
when he wasn’t wanted for the cart.” She went on, rather 
hurriedly, under Josephine’s steady eyes. “Mrs. Delaporte, 
meanwhile let’s me exercise her mare — of course always 
with the groom. He’s teaching me to ride.” 

"That good-looking groom?” Heron smiled. 

“Do you think him good-looking ?” said Carrie swiftly. 

“The village does,” was Heron’s reply. “He can sit a 
horse well, too. I spoke to him the other day. He was 
servant at the Front to a cavalry officer, he told me, and he 
finds life rather dull in our sleepy Westwick. Despite the 
attraction of village maidens!” He was conscious of the 
sudden flush that stained the girl’s freckled skin at this 
innocent remark. He changed the subject, slightly dis- 
gusted, and recalling a chance phrase of the old woman who 
waited on him, but dismissed the notion as local gossip. 
“How is your aunt keeping?” 

“All right — except for a cold and fussing for fear Uncle 
Tom gets it. As if a summer cold mattered !” 

“Still it isn’t pleasant,” said Josephine, “at your aunt’s 
age, and she’s delicate.” 

“It’s her own fault,” Carrie protested. “She’s too 
fond of muffling up and having fires in all weathers. Fresh 
air is what she wants.” She drew in a deep breath and 


THE IRON GATE 21 

seemed to expand sideways with no quiver of her flat 
bosom. 

Heron studied her with distaste. 

The throb of a car broke across the silence that followed, 
and Josephine started. 

“That’s Richard !’’ She quickened her steps. 

But before they could reach the house the owner had 
arrived in the hall. He surged through the French windows 
that opened out of the library, a tall man, massively built, 
imposing in his town clothes. 

“You there, Josephine? Hullo, Heron, how are you? 
And Miss Brackney — quite a party!” He greeted the 
group heartily, then turned again to his wife. “My dear, 
I’ve forgotten the fish.” 

“Oh, Richard !” Her smiling face clouded over. “Not 
the salmon for Sunday supper? What shall I do?” 

“I know.” He looked ashamed of himself. “I was so 
rushed at the last moment I forgot to call at the shop. 
But cheer up ! The Ormes have failed us. He telephoned 
to explain that the child’s down with whooping-cough. So 
we shall be by ourselves this week-end. Except for a man 
who doesn’t matter in the least.” 

“Who?” She was still engrossed in the business of 
Sunday’s meal. 

“A nice boy, very good-looking,” he was teasing her now, 
“for you to flirt with! Then you’ll forget the fish. ‘Better 

a dinner with herbs, where love is *’ ” He paused. 

“You go on, Heron. I’m not strong at quotations.” 

“Than a stalled ox fed on salmon,” the author finished 
solemnly. 

“But that’s quite wrong !” corrected Carrie. 

Heron, catching Josephine’s eye, gave a sudden hoot of 
mirth. Carrie scowled at the pair. 

“Never believe a man who writes,” Merriman warned 
her, his eyes twinkling. “Put your faith in some one solid 
— like myself.” He gave his chest a resounding thump. 
“Now I’ve smashed my glasses!” He hunted for them 
and his face cleared. “Not this time !” 


22 


TORQUIL’S SUCCESS 

“But who is the visitor?” asked Josephine, exasperated. 

“Torquil — that young author whose book you read, and 
criticized.” The publisher became serious. “I rather 
want a talk with him and he looked as if a blow of fresh 
air wouldn't do him any harm. He’s thin as a lath — you 
can feed him up.” 

“And hand him over, surfeited, to Richard for a new 
agreement.” Heron got in his little dig. 

“It's time you went back to Sister Ann,” said his hostess 
severely. 

Carrie, who had been lingering on the chance of his com- 
pany over the fields, was seized with a fresh inspiration. 

“I’ll bring round the eggs after dinner, Mr. Heron, if I 
may? And borrow a book for Uncle Tom.” 

Josephine glanced at her husband. He read the appeal 
in her eyes 

“But you’re dining here, aren’t you, David? I haven’t 
seen you for a week and I want your advice in a certain 
matter.” 

“Thanks,” said the author. “If you’re sure ” 

Josephine interrupted him. 

“Quite. Richard can go short as a punishment for 
forgetting the salmon. He’s always talking about his 
figure!” 

“We’ll toss up.” Merriman smiled. There was never 
a scarcity at his table. 

His wife, meanwhile, had turned to Carrie, who was 
making signs of departure. 

“Must you go? Give my love to your people. You 
can find your way out, can’t you? I want a quiet word 
with Richard.” 

“Oh, don’t trouble,” Carrie rejoined. “Do you know 
that you’ve got a smut on the left side of your nose? I 
thought you’d like to be told of it.” 

Said Heron to the world at large : 

“I once warned a fair lady that she had her ‘placky 
hole’ open — isn’t that what you call it? — and she turned 
round and slapped my face. Since then I’ve restrained my 


THE IRON GATE 23 

kindness/’ His eyes wandered over Carrie. “Would it 
lead to a personal assault if I said your boot-lace was un- 
tied?” 

Josephine frowned at him. Carrie was looking venomous. 

“Now !” His lips shaped the word as the girl bent 
down and knotted the lace, with a glimpse of the famous 
legs and a limp cotton petticoat edged with draggled em- 
broidery. The feminine touch was too much for Heron. 
He turned away hurriedly. “I must finish my job before 
it gets dark. Good-bye, Miss Brackney.” He escaped. 

They watched his thick-set but active figure vanish 
through the arched gate. Carrie, no longer buoyed by hope, 
departed abruptly. Josephine slipped a hand through her 
husband’s arm. A thrush on a high bough was pouring 
forth his evening song. Above the spire of the church a 
pink cloud hovered, and, overhead, were its companion* 
drawing together in fleecy ripples that promised wind. 

Merriman smiled down at his wife. 

“Well, old lady, what is it?” 

“Nothing! I wanted you to myself. How has business 
gone this week?” 

“Pretty fair — the usual worry of delay and high prices. 
Paper gone up again. But every one’s in the same state. 
Torquil’s book is selling well.” 

“Good. I remember it. Clever but slightly cynical. 
Is Torquil his real name?” 

“No.” 

“Then what am I to call him ?” 

“ ‘Torquil.’ ” Merriman laughed. “He won’t be 
known by any other. I gather he’s quarrelled with his 
people and cut adrift. He’s very ambitious and prefers to 
be judged by his work alone. I think you’ll find him 
interesting.” He went on thoughtfully, “He believes him- 
self to be a genius. Time will prove if he’s right. Frome, 
who read his book for me, was unusually enthusiastic, and 
it seems in for a big sale. It’s hit the spirit of the moment, 
with strikes and labour difficulties — Torquil is out for 
government by the people, abolishing class distinctions. 


24 


TORQUIL’S SUCCESS 

But I’m not sure if he’ll last. The older I grow, the more I 
see that talent must be balanced by character in the case of 
an author. That is, for an enduring success. Torquil’s 
conceit may be that of a youth. He’s certainly hard-working 
— has half-finished another book — but there’s something 
about him I don’t like, although he has great charm and a 
magnetic personality. Perhaps the truth of the matter is 
that he’s young and I’m getting on, to that stage when a 
man’s mind stiffens as well as his limbs and he resents the 
thrust of the new generation. Torquil will brook no 
advice, although I’ve made him several concessions and 
been generous in the matter of terms.” 

“I’m quite sure I shan’t like him.” Josephine slipped 
her hand still further through her husband’s arm with an 
impulse of protection. 

“Oh, yes, you will.” Merriman chuckled. “He’s 
distinctly exhilarating, out of the common, and in earnest. 
You’ll be swept along like a reed on the flood of his enthu- 
siasms.” 

“Not if he doesn’t treat you well.” They had reached 
the hedge that bounded the meadow and she stood on tip- 
toe as she spoke to gather a sprig of honeysuckle and, 
turning, fastened it in his coat. “There!” She smiled 
up at him. 

He took her face between his hands, stooped, and kissed 
it gratefully. 


CHAPTER III 


S AVE for the faint slur of the brake steadying the 
two-seater, the silence was absolute in the steep and 
shady lane. To the left was a thinned-out wood, 
and, between the trees, Torquil could see inquisitive 
shafts of sunlight, like spirits on some treasure hunt, turn- 
ing the holes of the birches to silver and the carpet of leaf- 
mould to copper and gold. So hushed was the air that he 
started when a bird escaped from the high boughs and 
flashed across before the car with a flutter of black and 
white wings. A magpie. “One for sorrow 1” His super- 
stition recoiled from the thought. 

“Two!” The word escaped his lips as a second magpie 
followed its mate. 

The chauffeur glanced sideways. 

“Beg pardon, sir?” 

“IPs nothing,” said Torquil discomfited. “Is that the 
house?” His eyes had detected the angle of the long wall 
with Sister Ann patiently on the look-out for “some one 
coming.” 

“Yes, sir. That’s the garden.” He slowed down to 
take the curve. 

Torquil felt a rising excitement. He was gazing at the 
little pavilion when a figure appeared at the open casement. 

“There’s Mrs. Merriman, sir,” said the chauffeur, and 
brought the car to a halt. 

Torquil, too surprised for a moment to remember his 
manners, stared at her, then hurriedly raised his hat, as she 
greeted him by name. He had pictured the publisher’s 
wife in his mind : a stout middle-aged woman dressed in a 

35 


26 


TORQUIL’S SUCCESS 

style suggestive of money and fully prepared to patronize 
him. He saw a delicate, pointed face with wide, grey eyes 
and ashen hair waved above a low brow that was fresh and 
unlined as a child’s. She wore a simple washing frock, 
with no ornaments save a string of curiously carved ivory 
beads. The loose sleeves fell back from her elbows, and her 
slender but rounded throat was bare. She made him think 
of the West wind emprisoned in the magic tower. 

“Would you like to get out here and join me, or drive up 
to the house ?” she asked him with a smile. Torquil’s 
reply was to spring to the ground. “There’s a door in the 
wall a few yards up. I’ll meet you.” The vision vanished. 

The chauffeur directed him, then moved on with the 
luggage. Torquil, more embarrassed than he would have 
been by the formal reception for which he had braced 
himself, stood staring at the closed door that showed no 
fatch but only a keyhole, his dignity a shade ruffled. How 
absurdly young she was to be old Richard Merriman’s wife ! 
His shyness made him aggressive, even to the extent of 
mistrusting the welcome in her voice. He heard the creak 
of the inner handle, and Josephine stood in her lavender 
dress against the background of currant bushes. 

“How do you do?” She held out her hand. It felt 
lost in his strong fingers, light as a leaf that had slipped 
from a willow. “Richard has gone to Fream Magna. He 
won’t be back until dinner. I was to make his excuses.” 
She led the way into the garden. “It’s so blowy on the 
lawn, I think we shall be happier here.” She was studying 
him, beneath her lashes, aware of his gauche attitude, but 
interested by the contrast of his youth and vitality and the 
somewhat sombre lines of his face. 

Torquil, with an effort, recovered the use of his tongue. 

“It’s charming.” He looked about him. “What lovely 
flowers !” 

The herbaceous border was ablaze with colour, the 
effect heightened by the background of grey stones. Bees, 
heavily laden with pollen, blundered from the tasselled 
heads of the hollyhocks to the quivering spires of the 


THE IRON GATE 


27 


Canterbury bells, reared like miniature pagodas; and the 
air was full of their vibrant humming, with a sharper note 
from lesser insects — the warm, exciting song of summer. 

“The delphiniums have done well this season.” Josephine 
paused before a group. “This is my favourite one, blue 
turning into mauve. I’m absurdly proud of them.” 

“Why ‘absurdly’?” asked Torquil as he looked down at 
the massed spike which seemed alive with butterflies cluster- 
ing on a single stem. 

“Just as if I made them myself,” she explained merrily. 

“Well, they wouldn’t be here except for you.” 

“No, but they’d be somewhere else. Nature would see 
to that. I can’t assume the airs of creation !” 

His flexible brows drew together. 

“But you might say that of everything. This old wall, 
for instance. It was built up by man’s labour and fore- 
sight to withstand Time. Yet he didn’t make the stone, 
only hewed it to fit his purpose.” 

“That doesn’t absolve us from gratitude.” Josephine 
caught him up, obstinate in her secret thought. 

“I doubt if the workmen took your view when they 
sweated under the heavy blocks.” In Torquil’s voice was 
a note of resentment. “We pay with our lives for the privi- 
lege of improving on the raw material. A fair exchange, 
isn’t it?” 

Her grey eyes searched his face. He saw that they held 
what the gipsies call a “star”; that blurring of the pupil 
into outward shafts of colour which contract and expand 
with every emotion as though pierced by an inner light. 
He noted it, his thoughts elsewhere, with the subconscious 
precision which grows upon those who write. 

It seemed to Josephine that they had embarked too hastily 
on a subject that bordered upon religious belief. She evaded 
further argument. 

“We’re getting into deep waters. Come and meet Sister 
Ann.” She smiled as she saw him glance up the path, in 
evident expectation of an addition to the party. A sudden 
gust of wind caught her. “Oh!” she cried. Her hands 


28 


TORQUIL’S SUCCESS 

went up to her ruffled hair and the lavender skirts were 
wound tightly about her. 

She looked too frail to withstand the onslaught. Instinc- 
tively Torquil's hand shot out and grasped her elbow. 

“What a blow !” 

Through the crook of her arm, she nodded. Suddenly 
his hold relaxed, a dull colour rushed to the surface of his 
smooth olive skin. 

“I beg your pardon ! I thought ” He stammered, 

conscious of the familiar action. 

“That I was going over the wall? I nearly did!” She 
set him at ease, pitying him in his shyness, and went on 
to explain her fanciful name for the little pavilion. “Here 
we are!” 

She mounted the steps, Torquil in her wake, quick to 
absorb the first impression. 

The floor, covered with rush matting, looked cool under 
the light that poured in from the two windows; a pair of 
deep wicker chairs with bright cushions suggested rest and 
there was even a little bookshelf high above the folding 
table. 

“How jolly!” cried Torquil. He added impulsively, 
“What a lovely place to write in !” 

“Ah, you must cultivate Sister Ann. She would like to 
see herself in print.” She settled herself in one of the chairs 
and waved her guest to the other. “She wants to hear about 
your book.” From the litter on the table she gathered up 
a strip of muslin, fitting a thimble on her finger ; an absurd 
little thimble that looked as if it belonged to a child. 

“Has Mr. Merriman told you about it?” Torquil asked 
cautiously. His eyes followed her swift stitches. 

“Yes. I hear it's selling well.” She looked up at him 
and smiled. “I was one of your first readers. Richard 
brought me the manuscript.” She was conscious of a sud- 
den silence. Torquil’s lips were compressed. “He's not 
going to ask me my opinion,” she thought, amused but com- 
passionate. Generously she relieved the strain. “I enjoyed 
it.” She hesitated, remembering her position as Merriman’s 


THE IRON GATE 29 

wife and her duty to him. “Though I thought it, in parts, 
a shade bitter.” 

“Life’s bitter,” said the author. 

Startled, she lowered her needlework. Torquil was star- 
ing out of the window at the wood that flanked the lane. 
The boughs sighed in the wind and a little swirl of leaves 
rose up from the dusty road and danced wildly. In the 
hush that succeeded, a pigeon’s note could be heard, a croon- 
ing call of love. Torquil yielded to its spell. 

“But it’s beautiful, too,” he amended. With a sudden in- 
consequence he added, “I saw two magpies coming here.” 

“That means ‘Mirth’!” Josephine smiled. “Are you 
superstitious ?” 

“Very,” said Torquil. 

“I must get lilise to tell your fortune, filise is my 
Brittany maid — there’s a strain of the Celt in her. She’s 
really wonderful at cards and she has strong instincts about 
people. She seems to read their characters.” 

“At first sight, do you mean?” Torquil was interested. 

“Yes, and so accurately. She never swerves a hair- 
breadth from her original conclusion, which is a more un- 
usual trait. I think we all form first impressions but are 
apt to modify them, especially if friendship follows. It’s 
an instinctive loyalty — a desire to overlook weakness. You 
don’t agree with me?” She was checked by Torquil’s ex- 
pression, sceptical and amused. 

“Isn’t it rather a case,” he parried, “of choosing the line 
of least resistance? We want to stand well with those we 
like, and agree to overlook their faults” — the corners of 
his mouth tilted — “hoping they’ll do the same by us !” 

“But supposing a fault goes so far as to give offence — 
causes pain?” 

“A personal offence?” asked Torquil. 

“Yes. Isn’t that the test of friendship? To be able to 
forgive.” 

“No.” He spoke almost roughly. “If it’s intentional, 
it’s treachery — not real friendship. And forgiveness in it- 
self is weak. A compromise that conceals a grudge.” 


30 


TORQUIL’S SUCCESS 

“That’s rather the line your hero takes.” Josephine 
looked thoughtful. “What I meant when I said your book 
was bitter.” 

“Which brings us round to my first point. It’s partly 
true.” 

“Is it?” She wondered. “But you can’t have perfection 
in this world. You must take people as you find them.” 

“Or not at all,” said Torquil grimly. 

“Which means standing quite alone — as the man in your 
book did. Yet he complained of his loneliness. Isn’t that 
a paradox ?” 

“An author can only write what he feels.” Torquil’s 
voice was arrogant. 

Josephine made no response. The conversation had 
slipped away again from conventional bounds, but she re- 
sented the tone he employed. With Heron the talk always 
drifted to abstract matters and conjecture. But Heron was 
an old friend. Besides this, he had better manners. 

“Clever, but not a gentleman,” she summed up the man 
beside her. She used the term in a broad sense. 

“What are you making?” said Torquil abruptly. 

“Bags to hold lavender. I tie them up with gay ribbon 
and sell them to my London friends. The money goes to 
St. Dunstan’s, for the Blind, from Sister Ann. We have 
any amount of lavender and it seems a pity to waste it.” 

“From Sister Ann? Why not from yourself?” He was 
studying her through narrowed eyes. 

Josephine hesitated. Did he take the evasion for a pose? 
To her relief a far-off note boomed across the sunny garden, 
giving her the excuse she needed. 

“There’s the gong!” She rose to her feet. “I’m sure 
you’re ready for your lunch. What was the weather like in 
London?” she asked as she went down the steps and smiled 
as she said it, thinking of Heron. She could see him, a 
twinkle in his eyes, listening to her polite attempts to be 
pleasant to her difficult guest. 

“Full of glare and gritty winds. I had to close my win- 
dow to write.” 


THE IRON GATE 


31 


“Were you working this morning ?” She looked surprised. 

“From seven o'clock until I started. I’m two-thirds 
through another novel.” 

“So soon on the heels of the first?” She approved his 
energy. 

“I had a fortnight’s holiday. I can’t afford to waste 
time.” 

She wondered if the remark referred to ambition or a 
lack of means ? She was conscious of a sense of pity. Was 
it poverty that had left its mark so plainly on his face? 
After all, his aggressive manner might be due to intense 
shyness. 

“You love writing?” she suggested. 

He gave her a quick look as though he dreaded mockery. 
Meeting her sympathetic eyes, clear and candid, his brow 
lightened. 

“Well, it’s me,” he explained boyishly, with a cheerful 
absence of grammar. 

“As natural as breathing.” She smiled back. 

“Not always.” He shortened his stride, in order to keep 
pace with her, and stole a sidelong glance at her face before 
he dared the conclusion, “You don’t believe that one turns 
on a tap and lets the words pour forth?” 

“No.” She entered into his mood. “I’m not even going 
to ask you where you get your ideas from? And if you 
think out your plot or let it sprout at its own sweet will.” 

“Thanks.” He laughed, for the first time, with a hearty 
ring that surprised her. “I’ll tell you what’s more annoy- 
ing. To meet people who look on writing as a hobby in- 
volving waste of time, and prate about an ' active life’ as the 
only test of manhood. They find peculiar virtue in move- 
ment. To sit still and think is sheer laziness. Unless of 
course it takes place in some palatial office, after an expen- 
sive lunch. That man’s earned the right to think, and even 
to put his thoughts on paper ! In fact, he’s expected to write 
his life. If he’s wise he includes the statement that he 
played football in his youth, or ran errands for his boss.” 

“Barefooted.” Josephine smiled. Torquil in this mood 


32 


TORQUIL’S SUCCESS 

amused her. All the time he talked she could see his quick 
eyes taking in the features of the old house, its fine but 
solid proportions and a certain conscious dignity that ignored 
the passing fashions. She led the way through the garden 
door into a little vestibule where the overflow of Merriman’s 
prints lined the walls from wainscot to ceiling, and paused 
at the foot of the staircase. 

“Your room’s the last door on the right at the end of the 
big passage. Can you find your way without me? You 
needn’t hurry, as the gong always allows us five minutes 
when we’re out in the garden. There’s hot water laid on. 
Ring if you want anything.” 

“Thanks.” 

She watched him mount the stairs swiftly, without effort. 
At the turning she caught a glimpse of his face, eager and 
interested as that of a child bent on “exploring.” 

“He’s very young,” she thought, with a faint regret for 
her vanished girlhood. “Young enough to have set opin- 
ions that Time will modify or change. I daresay the war 
has roughened him. At any rate, he fought for us — one of 
our voluntary army.” 

She never forgot this standing debt to the men who had 
formed a living bulwark of agonized, enduring flesh for 
days, and months, and years on end, before the tide of vic- 
tory turned. To them was the lasting glory of resistance 
in the teeth of despair. Of desperate retreats and all the 
horror of unknown, unmet devices, poison gas and war 
from the skies, constant lack of ammunition and trenches 
waist-deep in mud. Peace could not wipe out the memory 
of those early days from her mind. She was not one of 
those to indulge in sentiment for the dead and overlook the 
needs of the living. What were manners, she asked herself, 
compared with such a test of manhood? Torquil had not 
held back until the goad of conscription had driven men to 
take up the burden. She must keep that thought before 
her as an antidote when he spoke roughly. 

Meanwhile the object of her reflections had reached his 
well-appointed room and surveyed it approvingly, noting 


THE IRON GATE 


33 


the bowl of sweet peas on a writing table in the window. 
He guessed who had placed them there. Amazing that 
Merriman should have this delicate creature for a wife! 

As he came out, he met a maid who stood back for him 
to pass. He felt her dark eyes upon him and wondered if 
she were £lise. He stiffened and strode on, his slight swag- 
ger accentuated by a touch of self-consciousness. The 
maid’s thin lips curled as she watched the tall figure swing 
down the red-carpeted corridor, with its bay, formed by a 
deep window at the head of the staircase, holding a fine old 
linen-press and a pair of graceful, high-backed chairs. He 
was looking at these when Josephine appeared in her own 
doorway. He thought it an odd place to put them. But the 
house was crowded with furniture, Merriman’s chief hobby. 

As they went down, the publisher’s wife explained that 
he had gone to a sale at the other side of the county in the 
big car that morning. 

“I’m hoping he won’t be tempted. We’ve no room for 
anything more, but he can’t resist a real bargain — though, 
luckily, they’re rare now. If he brings home another ward- 
robe, it will be the last straw !” 

Torquil, aware of his ignorance of the subject involved, 
adroitly changed it to a dissertation upon pictures. He had 
a better knowledge of these and at lunch he admired those 
on the wall, of a certain Dutch school, massed flowers, 
tulips and roses, on a dull black background. He was 
hungry and the food was good. The wine too. It un- 
loosed his tongue. He talked himself into one of his moods 
of vivid enthusiasm over the London galleries. 

For the first time, Josephine was aware of his charm; 
the driving force of his brain, his facile and eloquent de- 
scription, the light that played on his lean face and the 
strong vitality of his gestures. How alive he was, and con- 
fident! If his books, as he said, were part of him, he 
should go far. Yet, all the time she was conscious of some- 
thing lacking, some quality. Was it “reverence”? No, that 
wasn’t the right expression. She probed the mystery in 
vain. A hardness, perhaps, caught in the trenches. 


34 


TORQUIL’S SUCCESS 

He sank suddenly into silence over his coffee-cup. 

“I’ve bored you.” Here was the other Torquil, aggres- 
sively shy, yet endearing. 

“You haven't at all. I love pictures and I always like to 
discuss them.” 

His brown eyes lit up with a swift, boyish mischief. 

“I didn’t give you much chance! The fact is, Mrs. 
Merriman, I hardly ever go out. I’m afraid I’ve no social 
virtues. I don’t like society, and besides, I’ve no time for 
it. You’ll have to make excuses for me.” 

He could not have found a swifter road to Josephine’s 
heart. She leaned towards him, across the polished ma- 
hogany — with its dainty Venetian mats, fine old glass and 
silver — which had considerably worried Torquil at the start: 
a question of crumbs and slippery forks. 

“I’ll tell you a great secret.” A dimple played in her 
cheek. “I hate Society myself, though I like a few real 
friends round me. That’s why I run away from my duty 
in London and hide here. We’re both of us rank offenders !” 

“Hurrah ! Then I’ve not bored you ?” His high spirits 
led him on. 

“Ah, now you’re fishing for compliments!” She rose, 
laughing, from the table and moved to a door beyond. 
“This is the library.” She passed through, Torquil behind 
her. “I’m going to prove my argument by abandoning you 
to your own devices for an hour whilst I write letters. 
Later on, we’re going to tea with David Heron in his 
cottage. I expect you’ve read his work? He’s another 
hermit — and a dear” Her voice fell on the word and 
Torquil felt curiously moved. To be called a “dear” by a 
woman like this would be an achievement. 

“Please don’t consider me,” he blurted out, caught by 

her charm, “I mean, I’d be happy anywhere, by myself 

That is ” He stopped dead, biting his lip. 

Josephine laughed and Torquil joined in, after a second's 
hesitation. 

“I understand.” She nodded gaily. “You needn’t ex- 
plain. In that box you’ll find cigarettes.” She touched 


THE IRON GATE 


35 


the table as she passed it, “And there’s plenty of literature. 
So, au revoir !” With this, she left him, erect, in the middle 
of the room, too absorbed in his new conception of her to 
remember to open the door. 

He heard the faint click of the catch as it closed and 
came to his senses. The lined walls hemmed him in. His 
eyes roamed over them. They held the accumulated thought 
of men long dead but vividly present in the spirit of the 
written word. Here was victory over the grave. The 
straggling rows of well-bound classics roused in Torquil a 
sense of battle. As ever, his imagination came round, full 
circle, to himself. Some day his name should figure on 
that roll-call of success. Some day, too — his thoughts nar- 
rowed — he would own a library like this, with its grace- 
ful, period furniture, its Persian runners and fine old 
mirror. An eagle topped the great gold frame, chains 
suspended from its beak, between the long, moulded pillars. 
The glass held the lustrous note of which makers have lost 
the art or abandoned it in the modern craving for brilliancy 
and a faultless reflection. He caught sight of his own fig- 
ure and experienced a sudden mistrust that sent his fingers 
to his tie. He was not in harmony with the room. He 
felt shabby and obscure. Restless, too. He turned away 
as though the ancient mirror mocked him, walked across 
to the further wall, holding a modern section, and took down 
a slim volume of verses by Stevenson; a posthumous pub- 
lication, of which he had seen a review. 

Opening the book at random, he read the poem that 
headed the page. 

“As Love and Hope together 
Walk by me for a while 
Link-armed the ways they travel 
For many a pleasant mile — 

Link-armed and dumb they travel, 

They sing not but they smile.” 

Josephine’s face rose up before him, the lips in a gentle 
curve. She had smiled when she called Heron “a dear.” 
Torquil’s eyes grew wistful. Hope was a vague proposition, 


36 


TORQUIL’S SUCCESS 

a weakly copy of that desire which spurred a man to pursuit 
of Fame. Love? He had nothing to do with love. It was 
one of the renunciations which the tyrant, Work, imposed 
on him. Fie read on, with a faint disdain : 

“Hope leaving, Love commences 
To practise on his lute, 

And as he sings and travels 
With lingering, laggard foot, 

Despair plays obligato 
The sentimental flute.” 

Absurdly, the memory of the cornet player came to him. 
Torquil’s world could hold despair. The crushed rebellion 
of the poor, and that deeper misery artists know : the strain- 
ing up to an ideal above their reach, ever receding as Time 
sets a limit to human endeavour. His mouth took on a 
bitter curve. Had Stevenson a remedy? 

“Until in singing garments 
Comes royally, at call — 

Comes limber-hipped Indiff’rence 
Free-stepping, straight and tall — 

Comes singing and lamenting 
The sweetest pipe of all.” 

Torquil drew a deep breath. The book still open in his 
hand, he walked across to the window, instinctively drawn 
by the sense of space. Over the smooth, well-kept lawn he 
could see the ghost of Stevenson’s dream pass on feet that 
spurned the daisies, virile and young — with Torquil’s face. 
In the stillness of the noon hour when even the birds’ song 
was hushed and the leaves hung slack and saturated with 
the strong rays of the sun, he could catch the strain of that 
elfish pipe — a magic beyond that of Pan’s. 

“Limber-hipped Indifference.” Armour for his tortured 
soul, a garment covering his rags. . . . 

Away to the West, where the purple hills were veiled in 
glimmering haze, lay the golden land of promise, a kingdom 
for the adventurer — that deathless Kingdom of Romance. 
He had only to gird his loins anew and take up the pilgrim’s 


THE IRON GATE 37 

staff, “free-stepping, straight and tall.” Success waited on 
the sky-line. 

His envy of the publisher’s house slipped away and was 
replaced by a growing contempt for the owner who lived 
on the work of cleverer brains. To-morrow he would as- 
sert himself. He guessed that some motive of business lay 
under the present invitation. He would pit his strength 
against Merriman’s. He started. Some one had entered 
the room. Turning, he saw the dark face of the Brittany 
maid. She advanced slowly and laid a pile of current re- 
views on a table that stood between them. 

“Mrs. Merriman sent you zese, sir.” 

He thanked her with the stiff manner he adopted towards 
her class. He was secretly mistrustful of servants — rightly 
so, for no one is quicker to detect a flaw in a man’s birth — 
and here, too, he had been forewarned. 

Her glance wandered over him and was withdrawn with 
a certain primness that held a hint of suspicion. She went 
out silently. 

Torquil stood for a moment longer, drinking in the wide 
view. The spire of the church bisected the foreground, 
silver above the dark firs. He resented its presence on the 
scene ; a note of divine authority struck on the shield of 
man’s labour, absorbing praise due elsewhere. If there were 
a God, He lived in man, through man’s endeavour, his end- 
less struggle upward to his own ideal. Torquil would go 
no further than this. He smiled as the fancy entered his 
mind that God was man’s publisher, keen on the market of 
his soul. 


CHAPTER IV 


W ELL, what do you think of him?” Josephine 
lowered her voice. 

She was lingering at Heron’s gate. Merri- 
man had returned in time to join in the little tea-party and 
was now strolling on ahead by the side of his new author. 

'‘A good-looking boy. Seems clever,” Heron responded 
promptly. A twinkle came into his blue eyes. “I rather 
like a visitor who saves one all trouble in conversation. He 
would make a good lecturer.” 

Josephine dimpled. 

“That’s malicious. Poor Torquil! His idea of Small- 
talk is either to sit in a critical silence or assume the mo- 
nopoly. It was partly your fault — you encouraged him.” 

“Agreed. As you know, I’m lazy, and I haven’t his flow 
of language. Richard was present too, and Torquil was on 
his mettle — enough to make a man nervous, and it some- 
times takes this form.” He added abruptly, “Where does 
he come from?” 

“No one knows. He’s a mystery. He doesn’t seem to 
have any friends — is utterly absorbed in work. I feel rather 
sorry for him. He’s shy, too, though you mayn’t believe it.” 
Heron smiled. 

“That’s so like you ! I could see when you arrived that 
you’d made up your mind to pity him. But I rather mis- 
doubt your judgment. He has great confidence in himself.” 
“You don’t like him?” 

“I can’t say. I’ve not seen enough of the man. I should 
think he’d appeal to women more than to my own sex.” 
He broke off and shrugged his shoulders. “He’s all right — 
offensively young to an old stager like myself. You can 
put it down to jealousy 1 I want to be the only friend.” 

38 


THE IRON GATE 


39 


“Oh, I couldn’t make a friend of him.” Josephine spoke 

quickly. “He’s not ” There followed a short silence. 

Heron helped her out. 

“Do you remember the remark made by Elizabeth Ben- 
nett’s father when he summed up Mr. Collin’s style ? ‘There 
is a mixture of servility and self-importance in his letter 
that promises well.’ ” A chuckle escaped him. “Servility 
is too strong a word. It’s more a false humility, though he 
doesn’t like his opinions challenged.” He opened the gate. 
“I’ll see you home.” 

As they passed out, Josephine turned and looked up at 
the old house. 

“Isn’t it perfect in this light?” 

Heron nodded, inwardly pleased, his rugged face serene 
and thoughtful. 

The original dwelling stood back, with its sloping roof 
and timbered front, between the wings of the barn and the 
dairy quarters, added later. A flagged path led up to the 
porch, massed in flowering clematis, and was broken mid- 
way by a sun-dial, where the paving stones, touched by 
moss, were bordered by a narrow bed with great tufts of 
sweet william, massed violas and stocks. Two dwarf lilacs 
guarded the entrance, miniature trees that in the spring were 
weighed down with double blossom, and the smooth turf 
crept up to the walls where the creepers were rigorously cut 
to preserve the charm of the higher beams. Against the 
wall that faced the barn a long green bench, with the upright 
and uncompromising back of centuries past, broke the line. 
It was one of Heron’s chief treasures ; a genuine relic from 
the inn, suggesting gaffers with churchwarden pipes brood- 
ing between spurts of gossip. 

A clipped yew hedge lined the palings, and was broken 
by a latched gate. On the other side of the lane were 
meadows with high trees and a sentinel in the shape of an 
enormous holly bush, trimmed into a massive cone, that 
watched the house with dark attention. The sun was set- 
ting, and a glow of pink warmed the white-washed plaster 
and flamed red in the diamond panes under the quaint 


40 


TORQUIL’S SUCCESS 

crooked eaves. The old inn had the sly air of winking at 
the passers-by, aware of its reformation but glorying in its 
unhallowed past. 

On the mat a rough-haired terrier wistfully studied his 
master’s movements, divided between his lawful duty as 
guard and the chance of an evening walk. 

“Rough!” The dog rose with a bound, his shaggy coat 
a-quiver, his body curving in gratitude. Heron felt in his 
pocket and produced a leash and tethered him. “He’ll be 
after the bunnies otherwise, and lead me no end of a dance. 
Look at him!” 

Rough was straining against his collar, fore-feet off the 
ground, throttling audibly. , 

They moved on up the lane, like a blind couple led by 
the dog. 

“I wonder what takes the place of bunnies in a man’s 
life,” mused Heron. “Ambition or women, I suppose? A 
woman will be Torquil’s downfall.” 

“Whatever makes you say that?” Josephine glanced side- 
ways, startled. 

“I don’t know. It came to me, suddenly, for no reason. 
Except that a man so self-centred brings down on himself 
the wrath of the gods. Short of a thunderbolt, a woman is 
their favourite weapon for reducing overweening pride.” 

“But Torquil is superior to love. He practically told me 
so.” Josephine looked mischievous. 

“No man is superior to love.” Heron stared straight 
ahead. “He might as well assert control over the elements 
— chain the winds and the sunshine.” He changed the sub- 
ject abruptly. “Wouldn’t that delight a painter?” 

They had come to an open stretch on the outskirts of the 
wood, where the tall trees had been cut down, leaving 
stumps, already a prey to the brambles that crept up to 
cover the shining wounds. It was like a field of blood, 
patched with flowering epilobium in massed ranks of glori- 
ous colour. A rabbit scampered across to its burrow, and 
from Rough came a hoarse squeal of baffled desire. 

“Poor old chap !” His master sympathized. 


THE IRON GATE 41 

“You're simply longing to let him loose." Josephine 
smiled at the pair. 

Heron nodded, but tightened his hold on the leash. 

“The hunting instinct that never dies. I once saw an old 
farmer, paralysed and propped in his chair at a window, 
watching the hounds go by. I've never forgotten his ex- 
pression. His eyes were the eyes of a boy — and he couldn’t 
move, hand or foot !” 

“Dreadful." Josephine shuddered. 

“No. He was happy for a moment, living over the old 
days. Memory is a foretaste of eternity, unruled by time — 
a man’s heaven or hell on earth. When I’m at the last lap, 
I shall see you in your lavender frock against that flaming 
mass of flowers. I stored it up preciously.” 

A little silence fell between them, warmed by all they 
held in common, the friendship of the long years and their 
simple reverence for beauty. At the farther stile the pair 
ahead had paused. Merriman leaned against it, watching 
Torquil, his head bent over a narrow slip of paper. He 
was reading, his face moody. Heron smiled to himself. 

“Observe Richard’s attitude. I wouldn’t mind betting 
that he’s given our friend a harsh review of his book to 
digest. At the psychological moment, too! Yes, it’s a 
press-cutting." Torquil had handed it back with a studied 
air of indifference. “That hurts, you know, with one’s 
first book, and Torquil’s experience is too raw for him to 
realize that it’s likely to do more good than harm." 

“Why?" Josephine was curious. 

“It’s indifference that kills an author. A long and really 
bitter review shows that his work has the power to arouse 
critical interest, instead of the usual weariness. A re- 
viewer’s life is not that of honey. Think of the stuff he 
plods through. Hopelessly amateur attempts and anaemic 
novels by worn-out authors, clinging to popularity and to 
that truly British spirit which will shout itself hoarse over 
an actor who can no longer remember his lines. I attempted 
the task in the early days, but suffered too acutely. The 
slaying of fools — worse still, innocents — is not a soothing 


42 


TORQUIL’S SUCCESS 

occupation, and I found myself drifting into impulses of 
kindliness that warred with my literary judgment. Or into 
bitter diatribe that the work hardly warranted. A ‘waste 
of words’ — as Torquil would say.” 

“But that was about letters. Which he never writes, on 
principle ! I shall be amused to see if he thanks me for his 
visit.” 

“He’ll probably send you a ninepenny wire,” Heron sug- 
gested cheerfully. “Or he may consider that his presence 
has wiped out the trivial debt. You’ve entertained a great 
author! You think that’s unfair?” He had seen the faint 
protest on her face. “I don’t know why he ruffles me to 
such an absurd extent. Perhaps it’s because he sneers so 
openly at living writers. That hits my vanity !” He 
chuckled, pursuing the train of thought. “It’s the fashion 
of the day to think no good of a scribe till he’s dead. 
Torquil swears by the classics, but I have an idea that, had 
he lived in the Elizabethan period, he would have joined 
with Ben Jonson and Marlowe in their attack on Shake- 
speare. He grudges praise — it’s a part of his nature. But 
when he threw a stone at Conrad I could have gat me up 
and smote him !” His laugh rang out. “There’s a phrase ! 
A pity Carrie isn’t here. She would have said : ‘But that’s 
not grammar !’ ” 

“Shall I introduce Torquil to Carrie? As an aid to his 
education.” 

“Do.” Heron stooped down and picked up the dog. On 
the path ahead, his quick eye had detected broken fragments 
of a bottle. Rough snuggled against his master. A throb- 
bing pink tongue shot out in an endeavour to reach his 
cheek. “None of that!” said Heron severely. 

“We could look in on our way back from a drive to- 
morrow afternoon. The Brackneys are always at home on 
Sundays, and Carrie likes a young man.” 

Heron glanced at her obliquely. 

“I think you’re right. Yet she won’t trouble to make her- 
self presentable!” 


THE IRON GATE 43 

“She relies on the charm of youth,” Josephine reminded 
him. “And on the ‘virtue of common sense.’ ” 

“And candour. She always ‘says what she means.’ 
Especially if it’s likely to wound!” He released the dog 
to his old pursuit of testing the strength of the leash. “She 
doesn’t look so bad on horseback. I passed her, early this 
morning, mounted on Mrs. Delaporte’s mare. She was so 
engrossed, she hardly saw me.” He hesitated, then re- 
sumed, “I wish some one would give her a hint. She’s 
turning that groom’s head. I can’t bear to think of gossip 
connected with the Brackneys’ name, and you know what 
a village is? The man’s a handsome, impudent rascal. 
He’ll talk — and then there’ll be trouble.” 

“Are you suggesting that I should do it ?” 

“Well, you’re fond of the old people. Upon my word, 
I wish she’d bolt with her Adonis. They’d be far happier 
without her. No, you can’t interfere. I see that.” 

“If I get a chance,” said Josephine. “But I won’t make 
one — it’s too obvious.” 

Merriman, at the stile, hailed them. 

“Now, you two, we’ll be late for dinner !” 

Heron held out his hand. 

“I must get back. I’ve some work to finish.” 

“Sure that’s the reason ?” Her eyes danced. She guessed 
he had had enough of Torquil. 

“Sure.” His face was rather grave. “Take care of your- 
self. I may look in at the Brackneys’ to-morrow — about 
tea-time. I’ve not been near them for ages.” 

“And I’m to protect you from Carrie?” 

“You can offer her a substitute.” He grinned and re- 
treated, waving his hand to the pair awaiting her. 

Torquil looked rather subdued. Merriman was in high 
spirits. 

“Well, my dear?” He extended an arm and helped her 
over the low stile. “I suggest that we don’t dress to-night. 
The wind’s gone down and after dinner we can sit in the 
garden. There ought to be a full moon.” 


44 TORQUIL’S SUCCESS 

'‘Would you like that?” Josephine inquired courteously 
of their guest. 

“Very much.” His dark eyes were veiled by a touch of 
melancholy. 

She remembered Heron's words: “It hurts, with a first 
book,” and was very gentle for the rest of the short walk. 
She was conscious, too, of the faint guilt which a hostess 
feels when she has stooped to criticize a visitor un- 
der the shelter of her roof. But Torquil was in a silent 
mood. 

At dinner he curbed his impatient tongue and listened to 
Merriman’s anecdotes of great authors he had known, and 
of old furniture hunts and bargains. Only once was he 
carried away into what Heron called a “lecture” and this 
was partly the publisher’s fault. He drew him out de- 
liberately and sat, absorbed, watching him. Torquil de- 
fended his opinions with a touch of real eloquence, and the 
other man nodded his head. Josephine guessed that he was 
pleased. 

When she went to fetch her cloak, Merriman met her and 
drew her aside. 

“He’s all I thought him — and more,” he told her. “A 
difficult man to deal with, but brilliant. I should like you 
to be nice to Torquil. You’d do him good. He lacks man- 
ners. But I fancy his heart’s all right. When we get back 
to town we must ask some pleasant people to meet him. 

He needs social experience. But he’ll go far ” He 

stopped abruptly and touched her cheek with his finger. 
“What is my little wife’s opinion?” 

A shadow flitted across her face. 

“I’m sorry for him,” she said simply. 

Merriman gravely acquiesced. 

“I fancy he has a hard struggle, though he hides the fact. 
He’s bitterly proud.” 

The expression seemed to her well-chosen. 

“Is it poverty that has soured him?” 

“I gather there’s something more. He’s a rebel against 
class distinctions — been badly snubbed at some time m his 


THE IRON GATE 


45 


life, I should say. But he carries his rancour too far. I've 
been trying to induce him to modify this in his books. It 
will estrange many readers, especially those who might be 
useful. Besides, this intensely personal note breaks the 
flow of his story. Crawford has hit upon the weakness in a 
cutting and very able review. I showed it to Torquil this 
afternoon. I hope I made an impression, but he doesn’t 
take advice kindly. It occurred to me that you could help. 
Let him carry away from here a pleasant memory. Show 
him that a good position does not always cover a hard heart. 
That’s his ruling obsession — though he wants to be success- 
ful himself!” He smiled. “It’s the old story; envy and 
a sensitive spirit. He sees offence where none is meant. 
He has no backing except his brains. It’s a good incentive 
to work, but Torquil needs humanizing. If you can win 
his confidence, you may be the boy’s salvation.” 

“I’ll try.” The stars in her eyes shone. 

“Then you’ll succeed,” he told her fondly. “It will be 
a new interest. But don’t let him fall in love with you!” 
He laughed the seriousness out of his voice. “I’m handing 
him over from this moment. You’ll find him in the garden.” 

“But you’re coming too?” 

He shook his head. 

“I want to run through a manuscript I brought down 
yesterday. He’ll be easier alone with you. Make hay — 
while the moon shines!” 

It was not the first time Merriman had included his wife 
in his business schemes. He knew her power over men 
and trusted her unfaltering instinct. A great believer in 
character, he had never grown stale in his study of life. He 
had a deep reverence for talent. It sometimes warred with 
his keen judgment in business matters, for which he was 
famed. No one could draw up a shrewder agreement, but 
his charity was not proof against distress where he liked an 
author, or detected the flame of genius. His marriage to 
Josephine at an age when a man insensibly hardens, had 
saved him from the danger of becoming avaricious. She 
nourished his enthusiasm for the human side of his work. 


46 


TORQUIL’S SUCCESS 

Without her, he might have improved his finances, but have 
lacked a finer happiness. 

As she set forth in pursuit of Torquil, Josephine’s mind 
was full of her husband. She saw that his new author had 
roused Richard’s expectations, a little damped by a recent 
affair that had brought sorrow to them both. In vain, 
Josephine had tried to save a promising young poet caught 
in the toils of drink; a struggle lasting two years. Now he 
rested in his grave, leaving a slender volume of verse, alive 
with a wistful, despairing vision of that spirit too weak to 
conquer the flesh. Merriman had supported him for the 
last ten months of shattered health, a secret that few people 
guessed. It was one of his hidden charities, a tribute to a 
spark of genius. 

She longed now for a success to hearten her publisher. 
Torquil might supply it. The faults of his character 
pointed to strength, not weakness. She must try and make 
a friend of him. Yet something in her rebelled against the 
thought. As proud as the man himself, she might pity him 
but she could not stoop to win him through feminine de- 
vices. The difference in their ages was too slight for her 
to adopt a maternal pose, she decided. She must get at 
him through his work. 

“Are you there?” Her voice stirred the shadows 
gathered round the old house, and a figure rose from a seat 
in the shelter of a bay. “Don’t get up! I’m coming to 
join you.” She suited the action to the words. “You’re 
sure you don’t find it chilly ?” 

“Rather not. It’s heavenly here. Look at the moon 
slowly rising. I’m longing to see it spiked on the steeple 
of the church.” 

“Like a cheese on a skewer,” she suggested. 

“Or a man’s face with a rapier through it. Did it ever 
happen, I wonder? In the duels one reads about it’s al- 
ways the heart or the sword-arm. But real fighting can’t 
be described.” 

“You were in the war?” 

“For three years.” His voice was sombre. 


THE IRON GATE 


47 


She risked a shot. 

“And you hated it?” 

“The idea behind it — the horrible waste. Those millions 
of mangled bodies in a world that called itself civilized. 
Not all the splendid heroism could wipe out the sense of 
insult, the individual revolt against death.” His nostrils 
curled. “I daresay it paid the capitalists.” 

“It saved our honour,” she protested. 

“Did it? It was a lucky thing the Germans overran 
Belgium.” 

“You mean it gave us an excuse?” Her voice was very 
still and controlled, but there was anger in her eyes. 

“Exactly.” 

“Then why did you volunteer? You left Cambridge to 
join the forces long before conscription came.” 

“That’s rather clever of you,” said Torquil. He gave a 
short, hard laugh. “I hated Cambridge. War seemed a 
great adventure, immense copy, and an easy way to cut 
adrift.” 

“I don’t believe a word you say !” She still spoke evenly. 

“You must believe it. It’s the truth.” 

“A part, but not all. I’ve read your book.” 

“That was written afterwards.” 

“Congratulations. You’ve improved ! Now, I suppose 
I’ve made you angry?” She laid a hand on his sleeve, 
when he did not answer her. “Torquil, listen to me. 
You’re a born writer. You can speak slightingly of things 
you feel, because your pride prompts you to hide the best 
in you, but in your work you can’t lie. It’s a stronger force 
than the impulse to scorn the opinion of the world.” 

She felt the arm beneath her fingers grow rigid. His 
face was averted. 

“You believe in me — as an author?” The words escaped 
him against his will. 

“I do.” She thought of Merriman and with an effort 
finished the speech. “I should like some day, too, to be- 
lieve in you as a man.” 

“I never look on myself in that light, merely an impulse 


48 TORQUIL’S SUCCESS 

behind the pen. Until ” He stopped on a husky note. 

She finished the phrase for him. 

‘‘Until success lies at your feet.” 

Torquil nodded. 

“I think it will.” She could feel the force of his ambi- 
tion, like a tangible form that shadowed him. “But the 
work depends on the man. There's a danger of atrophy if 
you neglect the human side.” 

He gave her a quick, sidelong glance, haunted by the 
words and the grain of truth in them. She gathered all 
her courage together and whispered : 

“Why are you so bitter?” 

It seemed to snap the taciturn spell that held him, pro- 
viding a safety valve for his pent-up emotion. 

“You’d never understand. You couldn't! Your life 
holds all that mine has lacked — money, refinement, sym- 
pathy.” His words poured out tumultuously, with an 
angry emphasis. “I’ve had to struggle since childhood — a 
childhood warped by my father’s hate and his chapel-going 
hypocrisy ! Do you wonder I’m not religious — that I don’t 
thank God for your stone wall? I can only see the broken 
backs of the men who sweated and slaved to build it. To 
you, your flowers are a miracle. To me, they’re the result 
of money, and a power that has no right to exist. I don’t 
mean in your own case, but in those who for centuries past 
lived on the work of others, hereditary monopolists. I don’t 
know why I’m telling you this.” 

“Never mind. Go on. That is, if you can trust me.” 

“I’ve never trusted any one. Since ” She could see 

him bite back the words. He left the sentence incom- 
plete. “I had my eyes opened early. They talk about the 
power of brains, but it’s nothing to that of birth or money 
— in this country rotted by tradition. I’ve learnt my les- 
son. I don’t forget it. But brains count — in the end. 
Until then, I stand alone.” 

“But is there no one you care for — who cares for 
you ?” 


THE IRON GATE 49 

She glanced at his face. It contracted with a sudden 
spasm as though she had dealt him a secret blow. 

“There’s my mother. But she’s no good. A slave, too, 

in my father’s power. It was her fault No, I can’t 

tell you. It’s the root of the trouble. I cut adrift, utterly. 
She doesn’t know where I am.” 

“Not even that you write? Haven’t you sent her your 
book?” 

“No. She wouldn’t understand it. She wouldn’t be al- 
lowed to read it. My father would see to that! It’s not 
chapel literature.” His sneer emphasized his meaning. 

“She’d be so proud,” said Josephine gently. 

“It’s no good being proud to be bullied and to have your 
old offence flung in your teeth.” His voice hardened. “It’s 
no use, Mrs. Merriman. I can never go back to my people. 
The gulf between us is too great.” 

“Then what you need most is a friend.” All memory 
of her husband’s advice had slipped from her mind. She 
was moved solely by a pity that brought the tears to her 
eyes. “But you have to meet a friend half-way.” She held 
out her hand to him. 

Torquil, in silence, looked down at the fragile fingers that 
persisted and were not withdrawn although they quivered. 
Suddenly his own shot out and enclosed them. 

“You mean that?” 

She nodded. 

He scrutinized her delicate face and his own grew softer, 
almost boyish and full of relief. 

“Just as I am — on trust?” he suggested. 

The mist cleared from her eyes. He saw again the 
radiation of the pupils and a faint curve of humour in her 
gentle lips. 

“Isn’t that part of the charm?” she asked, 

“Unexplored country?” He guessed her thought and 
realized suddenly that her hand still lay in his. Nervously, 
he released it and watched it fall to her lap. The whole 
scene seemed unreal. She was part of the moonlight that 


50 


TORQUIL’S SUCCESS 

silvered her hair and even the tips of the dark fur fastened 
beneath her pointed chin. He became aware of his own 
bulk and of a curious, reluctant desire to protect this trans- 
parent creature, so lightly poised by his side. He waited 
for her next words. 

“Tell me about the book you’re writing.” 

“Now?” He was startled by the request. Yet it fitted 
into the fairy-story. 

“If you feel in the mood.” She leaned back and drew 
the folds of her cloak about her. 

Beneath it, he saw the glimmer of her lavender skirts and 
her little feet, crossed sedately. Her attitude gave him con- 
fidence. It was that of a ready listener. 

The moon sailed up serenely over the rigid weather- 
cock, unmindful of its danger, until it reached mid-heaven 
and chased the shadows from the garden. It outlined 
Torquil’s profile with the effect of a woodcut, emphasizing 
his black hair and dark eyebrows and giving a mat pallor to 
his olive skin. He leaned forward as if to draw his breath 
more quickly, grudging the break in the flow of words that 
gathered speed as he lost himself in his inspiration. Im- 
patiently he thrust aside superfluous detail and description, 
himself the hero, voicing his thoughts. He had forgotten 
Josephine. She was only a part of the night, of its silence 
and mystery. In the likeness of the Creator he tested his 
work and found it good. He had reached the climax of 
his story when a voice called from the house : 

“Josephine !” 

“Oh, damn!” cried Torquil. 

“Sh !” She laughed and rose to her feet. “Never mind ! 
I’m longing to hear the rest of it, but we’ve all to-morrow. 
I shall carry you off in the car, after lunch, for a long 
drive and satisfy my curiosity. Come! We must go — 
Richard is waiting.” 

He stood up obediently, then hesitated with a glance down 
the path in the direction from which the voice had shattered 
his dreams. He was frowning. 

“Mrs. Merriman ? About ” 


THE IRON GATE 


51 


“What you told me?” She guessed his fear. “I never 
betray a confidence. Not even to Richard. It’s not my 
way.” 

“Your ‘way’?” He looked down at her with a wonder- 
ing admiration. She heard him murmur under his breath, 
“A path of moonlight.” He did not explain, but followed 
her slowly to the house. 


CHAPTER V 


T HE heat in church was intolerable. Even the choir- 
boys wilted, and the school-children ceased to 
shuffle and sat in a limp somnolence as the rector 
pursued his endless sermon. 

At “Fourthly, my dear brethren,” Josephine lost patience 
and began to devise autumn improvements in the garden. 

“If I look attentive, it’s quite enough,” she decided 
wearily, as the old voice droned on, extolling the “blessed- 
ness of peace” to a congregation mostly composed of farmers 
and their families who had tasted prosperity, for the first 
time, during the war. She had decided to spare a certain 
defunct pear tree and use its trunk as a support for a Doro- 
thy Perkins when she caught the welcome words, “And 
now, to God the Father.” With a genuine impulse of praise 
and thanksgiving, the congregation rose to its feet. 

She was one of the first to reach the porch. Outside was 
burning sunlight that hurt the eyes after the gloom of the 
narrow, vaulted space. In order to wrestle with her sun- 
shade, she paused in the dusty road, where a knot of village 
boys had gathered, aimless in their Sunday clothes. It had 
been soaked in a sudden shower the day before and the stick 
had swollen. The catch would only move half-way and 
she was giving it up in despair when a voice fell on her ear : 
“Allow me, madam?” 

She looked up. It was Oliphant, the Delaportes’ groom. 
“Oh — thank you. It seems to have stuck.” She relin- 
quished the sunshade and watched the man exert force and, 
at length, succeed. 

He handed it back with a sly glance that held a hint of 
admiration. 


52 


THE IRON GATE 


53 


“Needs a bit of sand-paper and then it would go all right.” 
A little too late, he added, “madam.” 

Josephine resented his manner. 

“Fm much obliged.” Her voice was stiff. She was mov- 
ing on when she saw the man’s handsome face change. 
He was looking past her up the lane, his eyes wide and 
incredulous. Instinctively she followed his gaze. Round 
the corner had swung a figure, tall, loose-limbed with a faint 
swagger. 

“It’s nothing, madam,” Oliphant murmured. He touched 
his cap and stepped back. But his eyes were still riveted 
on Torquil, approaching them. 

Some instinct made Josephine quicken her steps to meet 
her guest. 

“Timed it well, didn’t I?” He greeted her boyishly. A 
light cloak hung over his arm and he pointed to it as he 
turned and fell into step beside her. “It’s raining hard 
over the hills and Mr. Merriman was afraid that you’d get 
caught in it.” 

“How thoughtful of you,” said Josephine. 

“Not at all.” Torquil laughed. “If you’ll give me your 
prayer-book to carry, people will think I’ve been to 
church !” 

“No.” She smiled up at him. “It would detract from 
my own virtue. I’ve done duty for you both. And the 
church was just like an oven! Let’s go home through the 
fields. I’m longing for a breath of air.” 

They crossed the road to a gate that opened into a green 
meadow, spangled with buttercups, in which a pair of cows 
grazed. As Torquil closed it after her, Josephine turned 
her head. Oliphant had followed them and was loitering 
on the opposite path. She glanced at Torquil, but he seemed 
unaware of the groom’s presence. She remembered that 
both the men had been at the Front. Here, no doubt, was 
the explanation : some recognition due to service. Yet there 
had been a spark of malevolence in the watcher’s face. 
Josephine cordially disliked him; all the more when she 
thought of Carrie. How could the girl stoop to chatter to 


54 


TORQUIL’S SUCCESS 

this bold-eyed, familiar rascal? She did not deny him his 
good looks but, somehow, this made matters worse. 

Torquil stooped to gather a flower, and held it out for 
her inspection. 

“What is it? Fm no botanist.” 

“Cuckoo-pint. So dainty !” 

“Yes. It’s rather like the frock you were wearing yester- 
day. Not quite lavender enough. I love colour, don’t 
you?” As she agreed, he continued, “The name’s not very 
appropriate. Such a modest, delicate flower. And one al- 
ways associates a cuckoo with a brazen attempt to cheat its 
fellows.” 

“It’s a very maligned bird,” she protested, “misunder- 
stood from first to last. Its life is a tragedy.” 

He looked amused. 

“Do explain ?” 

“It’s the fault of the hairy caterpillar — the serpent in its 
Garden of Eden!” She gave him a sunny glance. “The 
cuckoo is the only bird that can digest such a tough prop- 
osition, and to aid in this process he is endowed with an 
iron-plated ‘Little Mary’ of vast proportions. That is his 
‘cross’ — to quote our excellent rector this morning. I don’t 
mean he referred to cuckoos. Nothing half so refreshing!” 

Torquil laughed. 

“I don’t quite follow. Why should the cuckoo neglect 
its offspring for the sake of a hairy caterpillar? Apart, of 
course, from the question of greed.” 

“Because of the mother-bird’s proportions. She’s too 
heavy to sit on her eggs ; they would have to be iron-plated, 
too.” 

“Is that a fact? I believe you’re inventing the whole 
story!” He caught himself watching eagerly for the 
twinkling stars in her eyes. 

“No, it’s the truth, and. there’s worse to follow! She 
flies in distress from hedge to hedge and sometimes she 
can’t find a nest for her prospective family at the crucial 
moment. That’s the reason for so many broken eggs on 
the ground. No wonder she turns out the others in a frenzy 


THE IRON GATE 55 

of mother-love. It’s a strange caprice of Nature. Why 
make the hairy caterpillar? It’s a perfect pest in the gar- 
den. If it were not for the cuckoo we should be overrun 
with it. I don’t know what butterfly it produces — or moth ? 
Perhaps that’s the solution.” 

“Beauty at the expense of love? A butterfly love. It 
sounds likely. It’s often found in the human species.” 
His mood had changed; he was scornful. 

A Red Admiral sailed towards them and Josephine pointed 
to it. 

“A glorified hairy caterpillar? Look at the beautiful 
spots on its wings. After all, Nature’s an artist; she can’t 
always be practical.” 

“You’d find excuses for every one.” He studied her with 
a whimsical smile. 

“I?” She looked up, surprised. “Oh, no. There are 
things I can’t forgive.” 

“What things ?” He was curious. 

“Any sort of treachery. And meanness, and ingratitude. 
I can’t stand that — it’s a form of cheating. To take all and 
give nothing. Unless it’s mere thoughtlessness.” 

“Always a saving clause!” he observed. “I notice you 
leave out serious crime — murder and so forth.” 

“But in nine cases out of ten those are connected with 
lunacy. There’s no question of forgiveness where a mind 
is unhinged. Besides, luckily, they’re rare. It’s the con- 
stant minor offences that sting, and take happiness from 
life — such as a friend’s disloyalty or cruel words that can’t 
be forgotten. You know that?” 

He nodded his head. 

“It’s best to be iron-plated, like the cuckoo. Immune 
from outside shafts.” 

“You can’t be. The human heart is made of a different 
material — mercifully! For it swings both ways — to the 
heights of joy as well as the depths of despair.” 

“In unequal proportions.” His lip curled. 

Their eyes met and Josephine smiled. 

“What a goose you are, Torquil !” 


56 TORQUIL’S SUCCESS 

For a moment he looked offended. Then he laughed. 

“You wait!” 

She guessed his meaning and nodded gaily. 

“Oh, of course, when you’re a great man, I shan’t dare 
to lecture you!” 

“I hope you will.” 

It sounded sincere, but she noticed he accepted this view 
of his future as definitely settled. She yielded to a passing 
impulse of feminine curiosity. 

“Supposing you don’t succeed?” she suggested. 

He scowled at her, taken aback. 

“I shall.” His voice was so rough it repelled her, but 
she faced him courageously. 

“Success does not always bring happiness.” 

“I’m not out for that,” he retorted, with a scornful shrug 
of his shoulders. 

In silence they rounded the clump of firs and entered the 
home meadow. A drop of rain fell on her cheek, succeeded 
by others. She turned to her guest, with a glance at his 
moody countenance. 

“I should like my cloak now, please.” 

He held it out without a word and she wrapped it round 
her summer dress. Something in the graceful movement, 
delicate as all her actions, stirred him. He gave her a side- 
long glance, apprehensive and penitent. Josephine walked 
on. 

“Was I rude?” Torquil asked abruptly. 

“I’m sure you didn’t mean to be.” Her grey eyes studied 
him. “Perhaps I was too curious.” 

“No.” He bit out the word. 

“Anyhow, we’re both being punished!” She dismissed 
the subject lightly with this allusion to the rain which was 
meeting them in stinging shafts. “I hope it will clear up 
for our drive. I want to hear the end of the book.” 

“You are kind.” His voice was muffled. 

“Nonsense! Give me your arm and we’ll run.” 

Thus, together, they reached the house. In the door- 
way, Merriman awaited them anxiously. 


THE IRON GATE 


57 


“Are you wet, my dear?” 

“No.” She smiled, breathless. “This kind man brought 
my coat. And forgot his own!” She passed a hand down 
Torquil’s sleeve. “You must take this off and give it a 
shake. Or shall I send it to be dried?” 

As Torquil laughingly refused, Merriman smiled to him- 
self, watching the pair with approval. 

“Unused to damp, after the trenches, eh, Torquil?” he 
suggested. Still mischievous, he asked his wife, “Was the 
rector in good form?” 

“Painfully so.” Josephine sighed. “But Carrie had a 
new hat with the ticket underneath the brim. Life’s full 
of compensations. She eyed our pew expectantly. I shall 
take Torquil there after our drive — if the weather clears.” 

“A very charming young woman,” the publisher explained 
to his guest as they all moved towards the hall. “I hope 
you’re not susceptible? You will have to steel your heart.” 

“It’s iron-plated,” Torquil replied with a swift glance at 
Josephine. 

She paused, one foot on the stairs. 

“Like a safe — that holds something precious ! Isn’t that 
a pretty speech?” Lightly spoken, the words held a full 
measure of forgiveness for his rough manner in the field. 
She saw him catch his lower lip for a second between his 
strong teeth, a wistful light in his eyes. “Poor boy!” she 
thought. “I don’t believe he’s ever had any kindness shown 
him. Anyhow, he shall find it here.” 

To Torquil this kindness reached its height later on in 
the day as he sat beside her in the car, beneath a heaven 
startlingly blue framed in banks of cumuli, and finished 
the promised story. Against the shifting scenes of fields, 
green, or golden with ripening corn, and of wooded hollows, 
he could see her face, still and absorbed, under the curve 
of her shady hat, and watch the faint stir of her breath in 
the slender throat where the soft folds of embroidered lawn 
fell apart. Hands clasped in her lap, she listened like a 
happy child. 

Her serene silence, broken by the faint throb of the car, 


58 


TORQUIL’S SUCCESS 

held something hypnotic that focused his thoughts, linking 
his work with her gentle presence. Beyond her, all was 
nebulous. There was only the sense of easy movement 
that lulled the nerves and beat time to the phrases falling 
from his lips. At the conclusion he leaned closer, uncon- 
sciously laying his hand on her arm, and finished breath- 
lessly: “Well?” 

Her eyes came round to his face. 

“Fine. I like it far better than your first.” 

He caught at the word of praise with a quickening of his 
pulses. 

“It’s a better book.” He spoke proudly. “But not the 
best that I shall write.” 

A little silence fell between them. Josephine stirred from 
her dreams first. 

“Where are we ?” She looked about her. 

Torquil gave a joyous laugh. 

“Heaven knows!” He was delighted by this proof of 
her absorption in the intricacies of his story. 

“Why, we’re almost back at Westwick. And you’ve 
missed our historic view! I took you there purposely.” 

“I don’t care ! It’s been lovely. And the rain’s held off 
just long enough.” He glanced up. Overhead was a dark 
cloud edged with copper. They were mounting a winding 
hill. On the sky-line a window of blue peeped forth from 
the gathering grey, streaked with watery shafts from the 
sun. The breeze had dropped and the leaves on the trees 
hung motionless. A sullen depression seemed to lie on the 
green and golden land. Then suddenly, over the hill came 
a sharp roll of thunder; the kettle-drums of the coming 
storm. 

Josephine gave a little shudder. She leaned forward 
directing the chauffeur : 

“The Glebe House — and quick, Morris!” 

“It’s rather early,” she told Torquil, with a glance at the 
clock, “but I hate being out in a thunderstorm.” 

“Must we go there ?” he ventured, seeing the end of their 
tete-a-tete. 


THE IRON GATE 


59 


"I’m afraid so. I told Mr. Heron we’d meet him at the 
Brackneys’ for tea. But you’ll like them — they’re a dear 
old couple — and we needn’t stay very long.” 

They topped the rise, caught a glimpse of the church 
spire and swerved to the right, through open gates, down 
a short drive, past a trim tennis-lawn with, beyond it, 
curved flower-beds and the familiar jarring note of scarlet 
geraniums, calceolarias, and vivid blue lobelia. Venetian 
blinds of bright green stared through the open windows 
between draped muslin curtains held together with coral 
sashes. From a flagstaff over the laurel hedge drooped a 
dejected Union Jack, and on either side of the pillared 
porch stood a little old cannon, with three balls neatly piled 
on the red gravel, a trophy of battles fought at arm’s length. 

A depressed-looking servant answered their ring and 
ushered them through a paved hall, bristling with ancient 
weapons, into the drawing-room. 

“I’ll tell Mrs. Brackney,” she breathed, and departed. 

Torquil, in the doorway, was aware of the dusty, spiced 
scent that lingers round Indian cloths and boxes made of 
sandal-wood. Although the big room was sparsely fur- 
nished it held an effect of overcrowding, every table, shelf, 
and bracket filled with trophies gleaned from the East, irre- 
spective of their value but sanctified by memories. 

At first he thought they were alone, but, as Josephine 
advanced, from the sofa in the far corner came the un- 
mistakable sound of a snore. She turned, her face mis- 
chievous, a finger to her lips and whispered: 

“It’s Carrie, taking a Sunday siesta. The ‘Sleeping 
Beauty.’ There’s Romance!” 

On tip-toe they drew nearer. 

Miss Brackney was stretched at her ease on the Indian 
coverlet of rusty red with metal disks, her head sunk in a 
cushion of black cloth embroidered in gold. Her jaw had 
dropped, the mouth wide open, and, above it, her eyes 
were tightly closed, the sandy lashes just visible. A fringe 
that had suffered from the damp stood out in a line of 
bristles above her high, freckled forehead. Sleep, that 


60 


TORQUIL’S SUCCESS 

rarely beautifies the human countenance after childhood, 
seemed in Carrie's case to mark the narrow boundary that 
divides the higher and lower creation. Torquil instinctively 
thought of a ferret. 

Josephine glanced at him, her eyes starry with mischief. 

“You're not tempted to be the Prince?" 

“Heaven forbid!" escaped Torquil. 

He had neglected to lower his voice. Carrie stirred, 
yawned, blinked, and drew herself up in a sitting position. 
A wave of resentment passed over her face. 

“Oh ! It’s you.” Her voice was surly. 

Josephine smiled down at her. 

“I'm so sorry we disturbed you. I'm afraid we’re rather 
early, but we were frightened by the storm." As though 
the elements backed her up, there followed an angry peal 
of thunder. 

“Storm?" said Carrie stupidly. Her eyes suddenly fell 
on Torquil and she struggled to her feet, with a furtive 
pat at the stubbly fringe. 

Josephine introduced him, and added a word about his 
writing. She was amused to see that Carrie had adopted a 
string of bone beads that rattled against her collar-bones, 
over her Sunday frock. Although she disliked Josephine, 
she did not scruple to copy her! At this juncture, the door 
opened to admit a shrunken old lady, wearing a cap and a 
Chudda shawl, who leaned on an ebony walking-stick. 
She was followed by Colonel Brackney, white-haired, lean 
and dapper, gallant in his defiance of age, a bloodless hand 
outstretched to grasp that of Josephine's after she had 
kissed his wife. 

“This is very good of you. Always a pleasure to see 
you," he said. “And Mr. — I didn’t quite catch the name?" 

“Torquil." Josephine smiled up into the kind old face. 

“Ah, Torquil. Now I wonder if you’re any relation to 
a Major Torquil in the Guides, whom we knew at Jubbul- 
pore? You remember, my dear?" He glanced at his wife. 

“Quite well,” said the old lady. “He gave us that pair 
of vases — a parting present — when we left." She pointed 


THE IRON GATE 61 

to the specimens in question, in Benares work on intricately 
carved wooden stands. 

It was a habit of hers to recall friends of the old years by 
the many objects that lined the walls; each one a ghost of 
the past. Of the long hot days and the vanished glories of 
military occupation. Instinctively she drew herself up. 
Into the wrinkled face crept a shadow of her vanished youth. 
She straightened the rings on her crippled fingers, stiffened 
and shapeless from rheumatism. 

“They’re very pretty,” said Josephine gently. “But you 
have so many treasures. The room’s quite a museum.” 

Torquil meanwhile had disclaimed any relationship to the 
Colonel’s acquaintance. A flash of lightning lit up the 
gloom and the old man counted : 

“ . . . ten, eleven. Miles away! But you don’t have 
storms here. You should see the ones in India. Now, 
Mrs. Merriman, try this chair.” 

In the general settlement, Carrie annexed Torquil. He 
sat stiffly on the sofa whilst the girl sprawled in the opposite 
corner, her long legs thrust out, the knees lifting her thin 
skirt in two sharp points, her petticoat visible beneath the 
hem. 

“So you’re an author,” she began. “Most of the Merri- 
mans’ friends are. I don’t pretend to know your books — 
I’ve never any time for reading. Far too much to do.” 

“In what way?” inquired Torquil. 

But Carrie refused to discriminate between her self- 
imposed labours. 

“I’m always at it, from morning to night. In the gar- 
den or the house. You see, my people are getting on. 
That’s really why I’m here; they want looking after now 
though Uncle Tom won’t admit it. I was up at six o’clock 
this morning, picking plums.” 

“Why?” asked Torquil. 

“Why?” Carrie looked annoyed. “For jam, of course, 
and to see that the gardener didn’t take half. Last year 
I’m sure he did, but I was before him this time.” 

“That must have pleased you,” Torquil murmured. 


62 


TORQUIL’S SUCCESS 

Carrie nodded and leaned across him — so close that he 
recoiled — to touch the electric bell. 

“For tea,” she explained. “They’re always late. Ah, 
here comes David Heron.” For the author had entered the 
room. “Don’t get up. He’s sure to take the stool next 
Mrs. Merriman.” It was said with intention and Torquil’s 
dislike to the speaker increased as he saw the superior smile 
on her face which added point to the remark. 

Her prophecy was fulfilled. Heron, after moving round 
the circle to shake hands, settled himself by Josephine’s 
side. 

“Did you have a nice drive before the rain? Where did 
you go?” he inquired of her. 

“Ask Torquil?” She smiled. 

Heron divined some private joke and looked across at the 
young author, who responded promptly: 

“To see a very fine view.” 

“I know! The place where the ducks came from. It’s 
a wonderful stretch of country from the top of that long 
hill. On a clear day you can see for miles.” He turned to 
talk to Mrs. Brackney. 

Torquil was hunting for some fresh topic when Carrie 
jerked herself on to her feet. From without came a rattle 
of tea-cups. 

“I’d better go.” She assumed an air of jaded importance. 
“The parlourmaid’s out, and the housemaid’s a fool !” With 
this, to his relief, she left him. 

They could hear her voice through the open door, nag- 
ging and persistent: 

“What have you brought that cake for? It was only 
baked yesterday. The old one must be eaten first. Is that 
butter or margarine? Haven’t I told you that margarine 
is good enough ” 

The rest was drowned as Heron began to talk at random 
of a certain play which he had seen on one of his rare visits 
to town. 

“Not half bad, though the third act tailed ofif — in the 
usual fashion! I’ve never tried my hand at a play, but it 


THE IRON GATE 


63 


must be difficult to keep up the interest for two solid hours 
and a half. Anyhow, The Purple Silence holds some clever 
dialogue.” 

Heavy steps crossed the carpet. 

“It’s The Violet Silence,” corrected Carrie, halting in 
front of him. As Heron did not dispute it, she went on 
stubbornly, “I know it is. If you like, I’ll look it up in the 
paper ?” 

“Don’t trouble,” said Heron politely. ‘Tm sure you’re 
right. You always are.” 

But the Colonel, already annoyed with his niece for her 
remarks in the hall, threw himself into the fray. 

“I’ll swear it’s purple” He glared at Carrie. 

“All right — I’ll get the Times. Then, perhaps, you’ll be 
satisfied.” 

Luckily, at this juncture, the depressed housemaid brought 
in tea and Carrie’s attention was diverted. She proceeded 
to instruct the former where, and in what fashion to lay it. 
Conversation was held up by these domestic matters, and 
the Colonel turned to action. He rose, straightened his 
thin back and possessed himself of the muffin-dish. 

“Now, Mrs. Merriman ” He handed it with a gal- 

lant air. “I hope there’s some butter on them.” He peered 
at the sad-looking scones. “But these are the days of pro- 
hibitions — and Carrie’s economical. A scone without butter 
is as bad as watery soup, to my mind. That reminds me 
of a story ” 

“Oh, do tell me?” Josephine felt sorry for the dear old 
man, generous at heart, but his impulses foiled by the tyrant 
he supported. 

“It’s a chestnut, I’m afraid — so old that it must have died 
when you were in the cradle.” He chuckled. “So, per- 
haps, I can risk it.” 

Carrie had gone back to the sofa. Her eyes were solidly 
fixed on Torquil. Said Heron to himself, “She’ll tell him 
directly his tie is crooked.” He knew and dreaded Carrie’s 
stare and her talent for noting the smallest defect in any one 
save herself. Torquil fidgeted. Mrs. Brackney was ab- 


64 


TORQUIL’S SUCCESS 

sorbed in the duty of pouring out tea and the Colonel was 
getting into his stride over the well-worn anecdote, his face 
lit up with naive pleasure, savouring the coming joke, when 
Carrie interrupted him : 

“You’re forgetting the most important part. You should 
have explained first ” 

The Colonel boiled over. 

“I’m not! I wish you’d leave me alone. You’d better 
tell the story yourself !” 

“My dear!” Mrs. Brackney’s hands began to shake 
among the tea-cups. 

“Do go on,” begged Josephine. 

The Colonel pulled himself together. 

“Where was I? Oh, yes. He said ” There came 

a strained silence. “Confound it! I’ve forgotten.” 

“Oh, no.” His wife was almost in tears. "I remember. 
I’ll give you a hint.” In a penetrating whisper she rushed 
blindly at the point. Every one in the room heard her : 
“ ‘And did the partridge walk through the soup’ ?” 

For a perilous moment the Colonel struggled with his 
amazed annoyance ; then his courtesy rose to the test. 

“That’s it. Quite right, my. dear. Ha ha!” He was 
caught himself by the humour of the wreck. He laughed 
until his eyes watered. 

The company joined in, relieved by his attitude. All save 
Carrie, nursing her wrath. 

“That’s Uncle Tom all over,” she grumbled, edging closer 
to Torquil. “When I try to help him he jumps down my 
throat. So touchy and irritable. Getting senile, I suppose.” 

Torquil’s lip curled. 

“Fie doesn’t strike me like that,” he retorted under cover 
of the renewed conversation. “But then, I’m fond of old 
people, with all their experience. I’d sooner talk to them 
any day than be bored by youthful ignorance.” And he 
looked her full in the face. 

He saw it change; the loose under-lip drop, the furtive 
yet bold eyes narrow. He waited, tense, but nothing hap- 
pened. For Carrie was true to type, both a bully and a 


THE IRON GATE 65 

coward. She would not have stood it from a woman but 
she gave way to Torquil’s sex. 

“Oh, I like old people, too — though they’re difficult to 
live with. Won’t you have some more tea?” 

“Thanks.” He stood up, cup in hand, amused yet dis- 
gusted by her surrender. 

Josephine beckoned to him. 

“Come and talk to Mrs. Brackney. She wants to know 
what you think of Westwick.” She guessed he had had 
enough of Carrie. 

Nervously he joined the circle, but between Heron and 
his hostess he found his path made easy, and his confidence 
returned. Soon he was talking fluently, describing inci- 
dents in the war, whilst the old soldier nodded his head and 
put leading questions to him. 

Carrie sullenly watched the group, her eyes flitting from 
Torquil to Heron, aware of her isolation and the presence 
of two men both desirable in their way but insensible to 
her charms. She hated Mrs. Merriman, with her delicate, 
mature grace, so plainly in her element; married, yet re- 
ceiving admiration “due to a girl.” Suddenly she rose to 
her feet and straightened the tight petersham belt. Torquil, 
arrested by her action, paused, with an upward glance at 
the tall, bony figure, in the midst of the story of a fellow- 
soldier’s heroism. 

Carrie leaped into the breach. 

“Time I went to see to the pigs. Good-bye, Mrs. Merri- 
man. I suppose you’ll be gone before I return. It’s 
stopped raining now.” 

“But you’ll put on your galoshes, Carrie?” Mrs. Brackney 
interposed with the constant anxiety of the confirmed in- 
valid. “The ground must be soaking wet.” 

“I don’t know where they’ve got to, but I’ll borrow 
yours,” responded her niece. “They used to hang on the 
nail by the garden door, but I expect one of the servants 
has stolen them. They’re always taking things ! Good-bye, 
Mr. Heron. If you want eggs, let me know.” Torquil, 
she left to the last. To his amazement he felt her hand, 


66 


TORQUIL’S SUCCESS 

roughened by her out-door work, linger in his with a faint 
pressure. “Good-bye.” 

Carrie strode out, her bone beads clanking against the 
tarnished regimental buckle. 

The Colonel drew a breath of relief. 

“ Now ” He leaned nearer Torquil. 

But the story was doomed. He had picked up the threads 
and was nearing the exciting climax, aware of his listeners’ 
interest, when the door burst open and Carrie reappeared, 
waving a worn galosh. 

“I found it in the kitchen drawer! Doesn’t that prove 
what I say?” Her freckled face was flushed with excite- 
ment. 

Mrs. Brackney feebly protested. 

“Perhaps they took them to clean. My dear, you’re let- 
ting in such a draught!” 

“Nonsense!” Carrie held her ground. “I know they 
steal things ! I’ve told you before ! But because Bennett’s 
been here for years you insist on keeping her. And Cook’s 
as bad! I took the trouble to cut the last asparagus and 
counted the stalks. She sent up half! I suppose they ate 
them in the kitchen.” 

“That will do!” stormed the Colonel. “You seem to for- 
get we’re not alone.” 

“Oh, don’t be hard on Carrie, Tom.” Mrs. Brackney, 
tremulous, tried to pour oil on the troubled waters. “She’s 
only trying to do her duty.” 

Carrie gave a strident laugh. 

“And that’s all the thanks I get!” She jerked out and 
slammed the door. 


CHAPTER VI 


H ERON leaned on his garden gate, letting his eyes 
wander at will over the frosty meadow on the 
other side of the lane, his thumb absently press- 
ing down the tobacco in the bowl of his pipe. After a week 
of rain, the weather had hardened. The holly-bush was 
glistening at a thousand points, catching the November sun- 
shine. From the gate-post to the yew hedge an industrious 
spider had woven a web, and every thread of the delicate 
pattern was filmed with hoar, a net of silver. 

Heron examined it gloomily, applied a match to his filled 
pipe, frowned over the first puffs and continued to stare 
into space. He was in an idle, rebellious mood, aware of 
neglected work, yet lacking power of concentration. It was 
Josephine’s fault, he told himself. For two long months, 
Westwick Place had been ghostly and deserted, the Merri- 
mans in their town house. In despair, Heron had invented 
the excuse of a visit to his tailor, to find himself, after 
a lunch at his club, ringing the bell of the Bloomsbury 
mansion. It ^seemed io him the last insult to learn that 
Josephine was out, had gone — so the maid informed him — 
to a matinee with Torquil. The rain poured down on the 
dirty streets and Heron spent the afternoon in the chilly 
and discouraging atmosphere of the British Museum. The 
mummies and the Elgin marbles learned what he thought 
of Torquil, and a sombre custodian, with the innate belief of 
all true Englishmen in his own detective powers, shadowed 
his footsteps relentlessly, having caught his angry mutter. 
At half-past five he was back on her doorstep, but Josephine 
had not returned. He caught the next train to Westwick 
and tramped home through the muddy lanes, an ill-used, 
lonely man. The letter he had from her next day seemed 

67 


68 


TORQUIL’S SUCCESS 

a poor consolation. Why couldn’t she return to the coun- 
try, if only for a week-end? What was keeping her in 
London? His thoughts came round full circle to Torquil. 

“Conceited young ass!” He breathed it aloud and the 
gate creaked under his weight. 

In vain the sun melted the frost on the bare hedge, 
turning the drops into shining opals, under a sky of tender 
blue. Beauty was lost on Heron; he set his face to the 
north wind. Rough, aware of his master’s temper, had re- 
tired dolefully to the mat. There would be no walk this 
morning. He lay there, enjoying the sunshine, black nose 
thrust out on his paws, eyes fixed on the moody back curved 
above the latched gate. 

Suddenly he cocked his ears and gave a low, warning 
growl. Steps were coming up the lane. Heron grudgingly 
turned his head, and his heart began to thud. A trim fig- 
ure was picking its way between the half-frozen puddles. 
It was filise, the Brittany maid. Then Josephine must be 
at Westwick! 

Before Rough had realized that the intruder was a friend, 
Heron was striding up the lane, aware that the November 
day was a miracle of grace, of silver and gold and blessed 
sunshine. 

£lise returned his greeting with a faint coquetry. Under 
her prim exterior she hid a Gallic love of romance. Long 
since, she had probed his secret and approved his adoration 
with, at moments, a feeling akin to scorn at the blindness of 
her dear mistress and the author’s rectitude. Merriman was 
an old man when compared to Josephine. It was natural 
that she should have an admirer nearer to her own years, 
to add to the gaiety of life. But the affair hung fire ; lacked 
excitement, and £lise wondered. All the elements to hand 
but the spark that should quicken them strangely missing. 

She watched Heron read the letter, which she had brought 
from Josephine, delighted to see his fingers tremble as he 
turned the single page. 

“Monsieur must not trouble to write. Just a message, 
Madame said.” 


THE IRON GATE 


69 


Heron looked up, his face radiant. 

“Tell her that I’ll be round at half-past two, with pleas- 
ure, and* take her out in the car. She must wrap up — the 
wind’s cold. How long are you staying?” 

“Only three days, monsieur. To arrange household mat- 
ters and get out summer clothes. We go abroad next 
week — to ze South of France — Madame and I.” 

“Never!” He looked astonished. “It’s the first I’ve 
heard of it.” 

She caught the faint grudge in his voice and hastened to 
explain. 

“It was of ze most sudden, monsieur. Arranged in — dans 
un clin d’oeil !” 

“And where are you going? Monte Carlo?” 

“Oh, no, sir. A quiet place, not far from Marseilles. It 
is ze villa at Les Lecques zat belongs to Mrs. Merriman’s 
brother. It was all ready to receive zem, when they ’ave a 
cable from ze son in West Africa to say that he is starting 
’ome on leave. Now, of course, Mrs. William wishes to 
remain in London, but unluckily she ’as let her ’ouse. So 
Madame ’as arranged that they should all come to ours and 
keep Mr. Merriman company while we go to Les Lecques. 
Madame ’as not been out of England since ze beginning of 
ze war. It will be a change for ’er. Away from ze fogs 
an’ ze damp.” 

“It will.” He tried to be unselfish. “And I don’t sup- 
pose you object?” 

The dark face lit up. For a moment the woman looked 
handsome. 

“You can figure to yourself, monsieur, ’ow ’appy I am. 
To see my dear country again, after its so great trials. And 
I go to Brittany for a week’s ’oliday. Madame ’as arranged 
zis when Mr. Merriman comes to Les Lecques, and we shall 
all meet in Paris on our return journey. Madame thinks 
of every one ! Even of my old mother — who is alone now.” 

Heron’s eyes risked a question. 

“Oui, monsieur. Two sons, quite early in ze war, and 
since zen my father ’as died. C’est triste, mais que voulez- 


70 TORQUIL’S SUCCESS 

vous ? She is only one of many. My married cousin looks 
after her. It is better for me to earn good money and ’elp 
her from zis side.” She glanced at the watch on her wrist 
and started. “Is zere anysing more monsieur desires me 
to say?” 

“I don’t think so.” He held out his hand. 

She laid her neatly-gloved one in it, pleased but out- 
wardly sedate. 

“Merci, monsieur, et au revoir.” The firm pressure of 
his fingers lingered in her memory as she turned up the 
lane, and she thought, “Un homme solide! If only my 
mistress would realize ’er good fortune.” 

Heron smiled as he watched her choose the smoothest 
path, with a care for her tight kid boots, that shone under 
the edge of her well-cut skirt. He was conscious of the 
sense of finish about the quietly-dressed figure that gave it 
a spurious grace. What a wonderful race it was! With 
its sense of beauty and effect linked to inherent thrift, 
practical, yet romantic, ever ardent to make the most of its 
opportunities. He thought suddenly of Carrie, slipshod 
and discontented, secretly thirsting for admiration, yet too 
lazy to improve her appearance by simple care. Carrie with 
shoes down at heel beneath an embroidered petticoat! 

“I’d far sooner marry filise.” Heron chuckled at the 
idea and the complications involved. The train of thought 
carried him on to Josephine at Les Lecques. If only he 
could be with her there! He saw himself in a vivid pic- 
ture of sapphire sky and sea, with the south wind sighing 
through the palms and scattering the mimosa’s gold. To 
be with Josephine alone in that land of sunshine and ro- 
mance, watching the lizards creep out of the walls beneath 
the silvery green of the aloes, in the shimmering glare when 
the drowsy earth pants for the night dews and the moonlit 
silence, breathing of love. 

He awoke with a start from his dream. A flash of white 
had caught his attention. It flickered out of the hedge, 
crossed the lane and disappeared. 

“Rough!” Heron’s voice cracked. "Rough!” he 


THE IRON GATE 


71 


shouted. “Come back, you villain !” He swung himself 
over the barred gate into the field and started to run, across 
the long, wet grass, to try and intercept the dog who was 
heading for the nearest wood, hot-foot after a rabbit. 

At the second hedge they were level. Rough, panting, 
tried in vain to struggle free from his master’s grasp, then 
changed his tactics, penitent and anxious to escape a 
thrashing. 

“I ought to,” Heron grumbled, shaking the dog by the 
scruff of his neck. “But, dash it all! I can’t, to-day.” 
He gathered the terrier up in his arms, regardless of his 
soaking coat. Rough, relieved, snuggled against him. 
Heron’s cheek went down on the black, velvety ear. “You 
old fool,” he said gruffly. 

Turning homeward, he measured the distance across the 
meadow from fence to fence. He could still do a sprint 
with any man. Josephine was young, too. Life was not 
over for them yet. He dared not carry the thought further. 
It involved Merriman. 

“If I put you down,” he said to the dog, “will you be 
good?” 

Rough quivered. Something bobbed up near the hedge 
and a white stump caught the light and vanished down an 
adjacent burrow. A low wail came from Rough, and Heron 
decided to run no risks. He strode on with his burden. 

The bright latticed eyes of the house twinkled at him 
under the eaves, dodging the massive holly. Inquisitive 
and malicious, like the eyes of an old roue, they measured 
his youth and his chance of adventure. 

“A moonlit night and a runaway coach,” they whispered. 
“The woman you love beside you. That was the style in 
our day. But you young men are degenerate. You won’t 
pay for your pleasures — you haven’t the courage of a lover !” 

“You never knew love,” scoffed Heron. “You bartered 
her honour for your desire. You can keep your senile 
fancies. I belong to a different generation.” He closed 
the latched gate behind him and dropped Rough on the 
path. In brushing the hairs off his sleeve he saw that it 


72 


TORQUIL’S SUCCESS 

was threadbare and remembered his new suit. ‘‘I’ll go 
and change,” he decided. “I can’t let her see me like this.” 
He smiled. “I’ve got to cut out Torquil! Taking her to 
a matinee ? I’ll bet she paid for the tickets. He’d accept 
all and give nothing, if I’m any judge of a man.” 

He inquired after his fellow-author that afternoon as he 
steered the runabout carefully through the leaf-strewn lanes. 
Foreseeing occasions like this, with the chauffeur left in 
town, he had wisely learnt to drive it. 

“Torquil?” Josephine smiled over the edge of her fur 
collar, amused at Heron’s solicitude. “He’s down with in- 
fluenza, poor boy! We’ve seen a good deal of him in the 
last few months. He’s improved, I think. Richard is 
wrapped up in him. His new novel has just come in and 
the readers speak highly of it. I hope it will have a suc- 
cess — not only for Torquil’s sake. It’s rather an anxious 
speculation, launching a new author when publishing is so 
costly.” 

“But his first book sold well, didn’t it?” Heron suggested. 

“Quite — for an unknown writer. But it was over-adver- 
tised and Richard is out of pocket by it. He hopes to make 
it up on this one. Of course all this is between ourselves. 
Richard is enthusiastic, trying to push Torquil in every way ; 
asking critics to meet him and other useful people.” 

Heron looked wicked. 

“ ‘Mrs. Merriman At Home. A lecture will be given by 
Torquil.’ You didn’t send me a card?” 

“I only invite kindly critics.” 

“Snubbed!” Heron made a grimace. “Is your protege 
a social success? I ask it in all humility, being a failure in 
that line myself.” He saw Josephine hesitate and pre- 
tended to be absorbed in the wheel. 

“Women seem to take to him. Of course he lacks savoir 
faire, and men are quicker to notice this.” 

Heron left this statement unchallenged. 

“He’s a good-looking boy — with a cold manner. Your 
sex immediately concludes that there is fire under the ice. 
It’s stimulating to some women. Especially when an au- 


73 


THE IRON GATE 

thor hides his identity under a pseudonym. He’s wise in 
this. Next to success, nothing succeeds like mystery.” He 
gave her a shrewd glance. “You think I’m unfair to 
Torquil? I confess I don’t like the man. He’s a climber, 
and a ruthless one — he’ll use you and pass on — and I can’t 
bear to see you squander your kindness and generous pity. 
There— now I’ve eased my mind. Don’t let’s talk any more 
of him. I want you to myself to-day, since I’m going to 
lose you for so long.” 

She nodded. 

“It seems strange to be going abroad again. Couldn’t 
you take a holiday and come south for a little?” 

“I’ve been willing you to say that! I might, in the New 
Year.” 

“Then write later, suggesting a date. Do ? You would 
love Les Lecques. I broke my journey there, coming back 
from Mentone with Richard, the Easter before the war.” 

They had arrived at the cross roads and she watched 
Heron turn the car to the left, past some lodge gates 
through which could be seen a winding drive. A little later 
they caught a glimpse of the low straggling house through 
a gap in the wooded grounds. 

“Are the Delaportes back?” she asked. 

“No. I hear they’re off to Egypt. He’s still in bad 
health — has never got over Fraser’s death. Hard lines, the 
only son. I had a letter from her last week about the 
Cottage Hospital. She confessed she was home-sick, Ted 
up with hotels,’ but she daren’t bring Delaporte back in the 
winter. A plucky letter. She worshipped that boy.” 

“Poor Norah!” Josephine sighed. She was silent for a 
time. Was it better to bear children and lose them, or to 
remain with a sense of frustrated hope? The war had 
brought the question home to many a thoughtful woman. 

“Well?” Heron was watching her face, trying to follow 
her secret thoughts. 

“Nothing!” She gave herself a shake. “Where are you 
taking me to-day?” 

“To tea at the Red Dragon, at Tarne — if you approve?” 


74 


TORQUIL’S SUCCESS 

“Lovely! It’s so nice to be back again in the country. 
To-morrow I’ve heaps to see to, but it was such a perfect 
day when I woke that I promised myself a treat. I really 
feel I deserve it. Eve been doing my duty nobly in town, 
whilst my heart was at Westwick.” 

“Was it?” He steadied his voice and steered ahead, 
absurdly happy. 

“When I saw Sister Ann,” Josephine told him merrily, 
“I stood up and waved to her.” _ 

“You couldn’t have felt half so pleased as I did when I 
saw filise.” 

“Now, David, I’ve told you before I won’t have you 
flirting with my maid!” 

He caught her mischievous glance and laughed. 

“Yes, I might have phrased it better, filise was merely 
a symbol — or rather the true meaning of ‘angel’ ; a ‘messen- 
ger’ from the gods. It’s funny to think that their wings 
were evolved from those on the feet of Mercury. At least 
that’s one hypothesis. I fancy that filise would prefer to 
wear hers about her ankles ! She’s very proud of her feet. 
A bit of a pagan, too, between the intervals of Mass. 
Don’t let her lead you astray at Les Lecques. The South 
is a dangerous land.” 

“You will have to come and keep me in order.” 

Heron agreed, divided between his sense of humour and 
that of revolt. He found it, at odd moments, hard enough 
to restrain himself ! 

They were climbing a long hill, with cottages like Stepping- 
stones, dumped down in strips of gardens, forming a broken 
causeway. The road drifted past a church with a graveyard, 
tree-embowered and a stark vicarage suffering from prox- 
imity to the high elms and patched with damp. The paint 
was peeling off the gate ; no smoke came from the chimneys. 
It suggested that battle with poverty which the ministers 
of a gospel breathing “faith, hope and charity” wage now 
all over a land that prides itself on being Christian. 

A hundred yards farther on, a sense of cheer and solid 
comfort offered an agreeable contrast. Set back in a little 


THE IRON GATE 


75 


square where the road widened was an inn, old as the 
church itself, but in good repair, the porch reared high 
above a flight of stone steps, destined in the centuries past 
to facilitate descent from the coaches. 

An old sign-board swung above it on which traces of a 
dragon, erect on its tail and facing St. George had with- 
stood time and weather. On either side were spotless win- 
dows, the blinds straight, with brass flower-pots gleam- 
ing between the curtains. An archway, with a cobbled 
pavement beneath it, framed the approach to the stables. 
Smoke rose from the crooked chimneys, adding the touch 
of warmth and life. ‘'Welcome” was written all over the 
front as vividly as the legend “Despair” on the poverty- 
stricken vicarage. 

All this swept through Heron’s mind as he brought the 
runabout round in a curve. He decided it was the revenge 
of Time. Once the Church held all the power, forbidding 
secular education and the enlightenment of the peasants, 
relying on superstition to wax fat at their expense. Now 
temporal power had crumbled. In turn, the priests were 
being sweated, albeit undeservedly, paying in poverty and 
labour for the sins and greed of the mighty abbots ; 
and much later, of the men who had held good livings 
by virtue of birth and family influence, irrespective of “vo- 
cation.” 

The balance would only be redressed when the country 
called for religion as it now called for education. Heron 
saw no signs of this. Even the war had not stirred Chris- 
tianity from its long torpor. Protestantism was divided 
against itself. The Church feared and despised the Chapel. 
Only reunion could save it ; a religion that offered one creed 
to all, one hope, and one salvation. 

He stopped the car before the inn and looked up at the 
old sign-board. 

Josephine followed his glance. 

“Have you ever noticed,” asked Heron, “that in the 
pictures of St. George and the Dragon we carefully omit 
the maiden who was the main cause of the trouble? In 


76 


TORQUIL’S SUCCESS 

Italian pictures she’s in the foreground; but here we fight 
for the love of fighting — the British scorn for romance.” 

“Yet here lives Mrs. Mitchell, more powerful than any 
dragon. Your dear Mrs. Mitchell!” Josephine looked 
mischievous. 

“Touche!” laughed Heron. He swung his legs clear of 
the wheel and reached the ground on the further side. He 
had opened the door of the car and was helping Josephine 
to disentangle herself from the rug when a woman appeared 
in the porch, middle-aged, neat and smiling. 

“Why, it’s Mr. Heron!” She bustled out to greet her 
guests. “And Mrs. Merriman, too, I declare. How are 
you keeping, ma’am? It’s a long time since we’ve seen 
you in Tarne.” 

“I’m very well. How is Joe?” Josephine shook hands 
with her. 

“Rather poorly, thank you, ma’am. He’s been laid up 
with his gout again, but he’s downstairs to-day. And 
grumbling — always a good sign!” Her lips parted humor- 
ously, showing a set of perfect teeth that seemed the last 
touch needed to set off her clear-skinned, healthy face. 
“He’ll be glad to see Mr. Heron if there’s time for a few 
words after tea. That is, if you’ve come for tea?” 

“We have.” Heron, again in the car, was steering it 
through the archway. He called back over his shoulder, 
“Can we have the little sitting-room ?” 

Mrs. Mitchell’s face clouded. 

“I’m sorry, sir. It’s engaged.” She turned to Josephine 
who was making her way indoors. “If only I’d known 
before! But the coffee-room’s empty, if you can make shift 
with that ?” 

“Of course.” Josephine noticed that the landlady seemed 
disturbed, more than the trifle warranted. 

The inn was well known to hunting people, excellent in 
its simple appointments. Heron had stayed there a whole 
summer whilst his cottage was being prepared. The room 
in question was reserved for the best occasional visitors, a 


THE IRON GATE 77 

cheerful little place with some good old furniture that had 
belonged to Joe Mitchell’s grandfather. 

“They shouldn’t have had it if I’d been about,” Mrs. 
Mitchell ran on. “But the maid’s fresh and knew no better. 
I daren’t tell Joe — he’d be that vexed.” 

“But it doesn’t matter in the least,” Josephine tried to 
soothe her. They passed into the coffee-room. “What a 
lovely fire ! This is cosy. It’s rather cold driving to-day.” 

“The wind’s in the north,” said the landlady. “I shouldn’t 
be surprised at snow.” She drew up a chair to the hearth. 
“You sit down and have a warm, ma’am, whilst I hurry 
up the tea.” 

She was off, active and capable, down the passage that 
led to the kitchen. Josephine could hear Heron chaffing 
her, as he chose this short cut from the yard with the 
privilege of a favoured guest. “Cream — and some of your 
strawberry jam. Can’t be beat — like yourself !” And the 
landlady’s retort: “Now, Mr. Heron, I don’t believe you. 
You said you’d put me in a book and Joe’s been looking out 
for it. But it’s quick come and go with you, like all you 
young gentlemen.” 

Josephine smiled. Was Heron young? She turned an 
amused face to him as he entered the low-beamed room, 
with its old sporting prints, where the pink coats shone 
bright in the glow of the burning logs. 

“/ heard you — flirting with Mrs. Mitchell! Pull up the 
other arm-chair and give me all the latest gossip.” 

Heron was groping under a table. He produced a fat 
footstool and planted it against the fender. 

“There!” He lifted her little feet on to it, found a 
cushion and tucked it behind her shoulders. “How’s that?” 

She laughed at him. 

“It’s all very well. You’re only pretending to be gallant 
universally !” 

“Am I?” His blue eyes twinkled. They lingered on 
her delicate face, faintly flushed by the warmth and framed 
by the thrown-back motor-veil. “Then I’ll go one step 


78 


TORQUIL’S SUCCESS 

farther and say you’re looking fine to-day. Have I seen 
that hat before?” 

“Have you!” she mocked. “It’s nearly as ancient as 
the car.” 

“Sorry.” Heron smiled. “I wanted to draw your at- 
tention to the fact that I’m wearing a new suit.” 

“Never !” She felt the cloth of his sleeve. The hand be- 
low his cuff clenched. By an effort he kept his arm rigid. 
Quite unconscious of his trouble, she fingered the stuff for 
a moment. “It’s nice. I always love dark blue.” She 
paused, hearing a sound outside. Heron had left the door 
ajar and it had now swung open, obeying the worn hinges. 
A girl’s shrill laugh came across to them from the sitting- 
room opposite. It seemed familiar to Josephine. “I won- 
der who’s there,” she said lazily, for the hot fire was taking 
effect. 

“I gather it’s a loving couple that doesn’t come up to 
Mrs. Mitchell’s rigid conception of ‘the gentry.’ They’ve 
been there two solid hours. To comfort her, I suggested 
she should charge for the room.” 

“How unfeeling of you, David.” She put her finger to 
her lip. “Sh ! They’re coming out. Don’t move — we shall 
see them pass in the glass.” Her eyes were fixed on the 
mirror over the low mantelpiece and Heron’s gaze followed 
hers. In the silence they heard a man’s voice, youthful 
and familiar. 

“Righto! I’ll bring the horses round to the front door 
and mount you there. Looks better, don’t it ?” 

There followed a double laugh. Then across the shining 
mirror passed the reflection of a figure in a cord suit, with 
a stock tie fastened by a gold horse-shoe: Oliphant, the 
Delaporte’s groom ! 

Heron whistled under his breath, as the footsteps died 
away. 

“No wonder Mrs. Mitchell felt her best parlour out- 
raged. Rather cheek of him to ” He stopped, startled 

by the expression in his companion’s face. “What’s the 
matter ?” 


THE IRON GATE 79 

She leaned forward, her eyes wide, full of a bewildered 
disgust. 

“David, I believe it’s Carrie who’s in there! I heard 
her laugh, but couldn’t place it at the moment. Isn’t it — 
horrible ?” 

“It can’t be.” Heron looked grave. “She wouldn’t dare. 
So near to Westwick. Besides ” 

Josephine stood up. 

“I’m going to see.” She glanced at herself in the mirror, 
summoning courage from her reflection, as women will, in 
a crisis. “If I’m mistaken I can say that I thought the room 
was empty.” 

Heron vainly protested. 

“She’ll be rude to you.” 

“That doesn’t matter. It’s better than breaking the 
Colonel’s heart. I shall try and frighten her. You stay 
here and prevent Oliphant from interfering.” 

“I will,” said Heron, his jaw setting, his face more than 
ever like that of a mastiff. “I suppose you’re right, but I 
don’t like it.” 

He watched Josephine cross the passage, her head high, 
and open the door of the private sitting-room. It was 
closed behind her. He knew by this sign that the 
guess was correct and his heart sank. The pluck of 
her! That little creature, all spirit and flame, the antithesis 
of the other woman, a creature of earth and of base de- 
sires. 

Inside the room Josephine was facing Carrie, taken aback 
by the unforeseen intrusion. She was dressed in a riding- 
habit and looked neater than usual save for her disordered 
hair which she was in the act of smoothing, her hard hat 
on the mantelpiece. She clutched it now and glared side- 
ways at the unwelcome visitor. 

“You !” She thrust out her chin. 

“Yes.” Josephine struck first. “What are you doing in 
here, Carrie, alone with Mrs. Delaporte’s groom?” 

She saw fear and anger strive for mastery in the freckled 
face. Carrie fell back on bluff. 


80 


TORQUIL’S SUCCESS 

“Having tea — like yourself.” She risked the shot and 
followed it up. “With David Heron, I suppose?” 

Josephine disdained reply. 

Carrie, mistrusting silence, altered her manner slightly. 

“I dare say you think it odd, rather unconventional, but 
I wanted tea after a ride, and since Oliphant has taught me 
riding all these months — without payment, mind you — I 
thought I’d show him a little attention. One that he’d ap- 
preciate.” Even to her, it sounded lame. 

“Does Colonel Brackney approve of this form of atten- 
tion?” asked Josephine. “Will he like it when I tell him?” 

Carrie’s long face blanched. 

“You won’t! It would be a mean trick; get Oliphant 
into trouble.” She spoke hotly, obeying an impulse to trade 
on a sense of fair play. 

“I think that answers my question.” Josephine glanced 
at the table. An empty bottle of beer stood with a dirty 
glass near the tea-tray and, in a saucer used for ashes, was 
the stump of a cigar, by the remains of cigarettes. The 
room was hot, reeking with smoke and a faint aroma of the 
stables. Her nostrils curled as she drank it in. “This sort 
of thing must stop.” She spoke with authority. “Other- 
wise I shall write myself to Mrs. Delaporte. She is at- 
tached to your people and would shrink from any scandal 
connected with her establishment. It will probably mean 
dismissing the servant whom you have done your best to 
spoil — at the risk of your good name.” 

“To spoil!” Carrie caught her up. “Perhaps you don’t 
know that Oliphant was an officer during the war and ac- 
customed to mix with gentlemen on equal terms?” She 
was working up to a counter-attack and she paid no heed to 
the quiet correction, “An officer’s servant,” but swept on, 
a malicious light in her ferrety eyes. “I don’t see there’s 
much difference between my having tea with him and your 
entertaining a butcher's son — since you make so much of 
class distinctions!” 

Josephine stared at her. 


THE IRON GATE 


81 


“I don’t understand you. Please explain.” 

“I'm speaking of Torquil — your latest admirer!” Carrie 
laughed nastily. “His father is a butcher in a little town 
called Ovingdale where Oliphant’s people live. He knew 
Torquil as a boy — recognized him walking with you. And 
you brought him to call on my uncle, although you’re so 
particular! He isn’t as good as Oliphant — not so respect- 
able. There’s a queer story about his birth. His mother 
was lady’s-maid at a big house in the neighbourhood, left 
in disgrace and married the butcher. Torquil was born 
six months later ! The butcher claims to be his father, but 
no one knows exactly. I suppose all this is news to you?” 

She was openly insolent. “Shows that one should be care- 
ful in accusing other people !” 

But Josephine had recovered herself. 

“Torquil has nothing to do with the present case. Be- 
sides, I should not care to take Oliphant’s word concern- 
ing him. Wherever he comes from, Torquil is a well- 
educated man, an author, and my husband’s friend. The 
story sounds most unlikely. You forget that he was at 
Cambridge.” 

Carrie sneered triumphantly. 

“That’s the fishy part — I’d not finished. The Squire took 
an unusual interest in his wife’s late maid, even after her 
hurried marriage! There’s a secondary public school at 
Ovingdale and Torquil was sent there with the Squire’s 
financial help. He took a scholarship for Cambridge and 
came a cropper — his own fault ! He posed as being a con- 
nection of his patron and got in with a good set. Unluckily 
a fellow pupil at Ovingdale turned up at the same college 
and gave him away. The war broke out and he enlisted. 
To save his face, I imagine. Not that I dislike the man or 
despise him for his lowly birth.” Her voice was assured 
and unctuous. “Anyhow he fought for us, and it’s a demo- 
cratic age. But it’s rather rich your dropping on me for 
encouraging his old playmate!” 

The taunt missed Josephine; she was too much absorbed 


82 


TORQUIL’S SUCCESS 

in Carrie's disclosures. The story supplied many missing 
links in the young author’s confidences on the moonlit night 
in the garden. It accounted for his bitterness and his hatred 
of the ruling classes. Josephine was no snob and Torquil’s 
talent set him apart. She respected him for his early 
struggles and his strenuous efforts towards education. 
What jarred on her was the deceit practised at Cambridge 
on his friends. Even here she found an excuse. If the 
Squire, as Carrie hinted, had been responsible for his birth, 
hadn’t the son a certain claim, that of the bar sinister ? But 
then, the Squire had ruined Torquil’s mother. She frowned 
and became suddenly conscious of the silence and Carrie’s 
triumphant smile. 

“Thinking it over?” the girl suggested. 

“No. I’ve quite made up my mind. I shall not discuss 
things further, but unless you cease your rides and meetings 
with Oliphant I shall do as I said. That is, warn Mrs. 
Delaporte of the gossip round her groom’s name and the 
use you are making of her horses.” 

The last point frightened Carrie, aware of long hours in 
the saddle. 

“I’ve never been out so late before. It’s not likely to 
happen again,” she admitted sullenly. 

Josephine nodded. 

“Very well. But I’ve warned you, and I mean it. Now, 
if you will put on your hat, Mr. Heron and I will see you 
off. This should check further gossip. Mrs. Mitchell can 
be trusted, but she can’t prevent chatter among the men 
about the place.” 

Carrie opened her mouth to retort, met Josephine’s eyes 
and changed her mind. 

The programme was carried out in full. Oliphant, wait- 
ing with the horses, eyed the pair curiously as they stood 
in the porch, the landlady close at hand, and admired Mrs. 
Delaporte’s mare. He had the sense to fall behind Carrie 
as she trotted off and to touch his hat to her friends. The 
final touch to the comedy was added by Mrs. Mitchell, who 


THE IRON GATE 


83 


was not in the least deceived by Heron’s jovial manner. 
She turned to Josephine, her comely face apologetic, her 
voice vexed and motherly: 

“To think that the likes o’ they should have kept you 
waiting for your tea, ma’am!” 


CHAPTER VII 


I N the hurry of departure, Josephine had little time to 
think of Carrie’s disclosures, and the incident faded 
from her mind when she reached Les Lecques. She 
was captured by the familiar charm of the South ; the light 
and vivid colour missed in the grey years of war. It was 
like meeting a long-lost friend. Eagerly she picked up the 
threads of the sunny Riviera life, enchanted by her eman- 
cipation and fresh scenes to explore. 

Merriman hurried across for Christmas and this crowned 
her sense of pleasure, though she did not think him looking 
well. He was thinner, with weary lines in his face, due to 
incessant business worries. His packers had been out on 
strike. It had led to a rise in wages throughout his entire 
staff. The price of paper was still increasing and every- 
thing else in the publishing line showed the same tendency. 
There was little margin for profits. His authors, too, were 
feeling the pinch of the high cost of living and the en- 
hanced price of books. No one was satisfied. Several well- 
known firms had failed, others had amalgamated. Merri- 
man quoted the instance of an historic house that employed 
a single traveller now instead of its normal half a dozen. 

“Penny-wise and pound-foolish,” he commented as he 
sat on the terrace overhanging the sea and poured out his 
pent-up troubles into Josephine’s sympathetic ears. “I’m 
adding to mine. The only chance is to build up against 
better times ; hold on, at the risk of a loss. But it’s anxious 
work, my dear. Still you’d rather I did this than put up 
the shutters, wouldn’t you?” 

“I should think so !” She smiled proudly. “But couldn’t 
we economize, let the London house and have a flat? 

84 


85 


THE IRON GATE 

Westwick is really our home and we don’t need that huge 
place. It means far too many servants and is empty the 
greater part of the year. You could always entertain at 
your club or at some good restaurant.” 

“Yes. It’s not a bad idea. Still just at present it might 
be unwise — cause comment,” he decided. “I shouldn’t care, 
except for you and the years ahead. I want to leave you 
secure, my dearest, when I’m gone.” His face was sad. 

“Don’t!” She slipped a hand into his. “You’re not to 
talk of such things.” 

“It eases my mind,” said Merriman. “Besides it’s only 
natural and right that I should. Life’s uncertain, and 
there’s the difference in our ages; which reminds me — 
last week I went down to Westwick to see Heron. I’ve 
asked him to be my trustee — in the place of poor old 
Scudamore — together with my brother. I don’t know a 
sounder man or one whom I could trust so surely to study 
your interests. I’m glad to say that he consented, with a 
single stipulation. That I shouldn’t leave him any money !” 

Josephine nodded. 

“How like David !” 

“Yes. You’re not to mention it, but I’m making it up 
to him by a legacy of some ‘first editions’ which I know he 
will prize. I hope you approve of this ?” 

“Of course I do. What a nice idea!” 

“Then there’s another thing,” Merriman went on. “I’ve 
altered my will a little ; cut out some minor legacies. Every- 
thing now comes to you. You’ll need it in these changed 
times. And — it’s unconditional.” 

She looked up, faintly puzzled. 

“What do you mean by that?” 

Merriman smiled. 

“Simply, my dear, that there’s no clause about re- 
marriage. I’ve always felt it the meanest trick a man can 
play on a faithful wife who has brought him love and sym- 
pathy. No, don’t turn away like that!” He had seen her 
recoil, her face reproachful. “I know exactly what’s in 
your mind, but you’re young. If happiness comes your way 


86 


TORQUIL’S SUCCESS 

after I’m gone, take it, dear, without any vague regrets, and 
remember that I wished it. Honestly. ,, His voice quivered. 
“I dread the loneliness for you, without parents or children 
— a solitary old age.” He put up a hand to shield his eyes 
from the glare which suddenly hurt them, and added, with 
a trace of emotion, “So long as it’s the right man. One in 
whom you can trust — who would be good to my Josephine.” 

“Richard!” Her arms went round him. She peered up 
under the shading hand. “Why are you talking like this? 
You’re not hiding anything from me?” 

He patted her cheek. 

“I’m all right — a bit fagged by my journey still, and 
anxious to get business over before enjoying my holiday. 
I just wanted you to know about my will. That was all.” 

“You’re sure?” 

He drew her on to his knee. 

“Do I look ill?” He laughed and kissed her. “Now — 
there’s another matter You comfy?” 

She nodded, smoothing his hair, still crisp and vigorous, 
leaning against him and aware of the quick beat of his heart. 
Too quick, surely? Her fingers slipped to his hand, which 
was dry and feverish. 

“I shall take his temperature,” she thought. “I hope he 
hasn’t caught a chill.” 

She listened. Merriman was speaking. 

“I’m worried about Torquil. You know he has had a 
bad attack of influenza and pneumonia? It was touch and 
go for a time. Luckily he pulled through, but it’s left him 
a wreck. I went to see him. He can’t work and he’s in 
despair. Alone, and still very weak, in squalid rooms that 
made me long to put my hand in my pocket. But Torquil’s 
too proud for charity. Still, there’s some money due on 
his book, though not enough for the change he needs. The 
doctor, whom I saw for a moment, says he must go away to 
a warm and dry climate, suggested Torquay or Cornwall.” 
Merriman paused. He had seen his own idea reflected in 
Josephine’s pitiful eyes. 


THE IRON GATE 87 

“Would you like him to come here?” An eager light 
was in her face. 

“It all depends,” said her husband, “on whether you’d 
find him in the way. If he comes, it’s for a long visit. The 
journey’s an expensive one and it would be absurd to send 
him back to England before the cold winds were over. I 
was thinking it out in the train. If you’d have him for the 
first month he would probably be strong enough to go on 
alone, somewhere. Once in the South it wouldn’t cost 
him any more than London lodgings, and he could write — • 
he’d be perfectly happy. I should be willing to advance 
him money on the book in hand — it’s excellent from all 
accounts — if that made things easier.” 

“You’re a darling!” 

Merriman’s eyes twinkled. 

“I’m thinking of myself, too. I consider him a sound 
investment. Torquil will recognize this point!” He 
chuckled, foreseeing the interview. “I know exactly how to 
approach him. The question is, will he bore you ?” 

“No. He can always write. Kate is coming next month 
and she will help me entertain him.” 

“Kate Rollit?” Merriman asked. 

<f Yes. She’s now at Beaulieu and proposes a visit to 
Les Lecques.” She referred to a distant cousin who spent 
most of the year abroad, in pursuit of the sunshine. 

The widow of an Indian judge, with moderate means, 
she preferred this manner of life to the cares of an establish- 
ment. Wherever she went she gathered friends, attracted 
by her personality, high ideals and startling speech. She 
dabbled in Spiritism, and had a somewhat bewildering habit 
of referring to the dear-departed as though he were in the 
flesh beside her. “I must ask Maurice,” she would say 
when some arrangement was mooted. She even consulted 
him on the chance of a number turning up at the tables, in 
her mild flutters at Monte Carlo. If Fortune went against 
her she would absolve her long-dead spouse by hinting 
mysteriously at the intervention of “mischievous spirits.” 


88 


TORQUIL’S SUCCESS 

Comely, buxom and sympathetic, in old-fashioned widow's 
weeds, invariably cheerful, she became a centre of interest 
and amusement in the small hotels and pensions she graced 
with her generous presence. The possession of a few good 
jewels in ancient settings and the fact that “Maurice” had 
been a well-known judge placed her socially and balanced 
her eccentricities. To Josephine, she was a joy. She had 
never forgotten an incident long since in Mentone when Kate 
had waved a startled stranger away from the seat by her side 
explaining that Maurice “occupied” it! 

“She’ll try and convert Torquil.” Merriman looked 
amused. “But I don’t recommend table-turning in his 
present state of health. He’s a mass of nerves, poor boy. 
You see your way to having him ?” 

“Easily. I shall enjoy it. I like fussing over people, and 
he ought to get strong here.” She added simply, “David will 
be disappointed. He wanted to come in the New Year but 
I daren’t have them together. He doesn’t get on with 
Torquil.” 

Merriman was studying her with a whimsical expression. 

“Heron can visit you later. You’ll find him restful — 
after the other ! All the same, I’m fond of the boy. He’s 
conceited, but there’s a charm about him, and I respect him 
as a worker. I don’t believe he ever squanders a penny 
piece on amusement. He lives for his writing — and he’ll 
succeed.” He paused. “I wonder where he comes from?” 
Josephine’s slender body stiffened, and Merriman smiled. 
“You know?” 

She nodded. 

“I’ve heard — something. Not from Torquil, but through 
a person I don’t trust. It may be pure gossip.” She hesi- 
tated. “If you like ” 

But Merriman checked her. 

“No, don’t tell me.” He saw that her loyalty was 
involved. “Come and give me tea instead. This warm 
weather makes me thirsty. But it’s heavenly, after London.” 

She slipped down from his knee. 

“We’ll have it here. I’ll tell the maid.” 


THE IRON GATE 


89 


He watched her make her way indoors with her light and 
youthful step, and his tired face grew wistful. The strong 
temptation to carry her back with him on his return to 
England caught him, and then the alternative: to remain 
here, neglecting his business. He resisted both — for her 
sake. The change was doing her worlds of good and there 
was the future, dependent on him. His mind wandered 
back to his will. Heron’s face rose up before him. 

“And she doesn’t know — bless her heart ! I only guessed 
it myself last week, although I’ve seen them together for 
years. Perhaps the senses become more acute as one ap- 
proaches ” He pulled himself up. “I mustn’t think 

of it, or she’ll suspect.” He leaned back and closed his eyes, 
feeling the clamorous beat of his pulse shaking life out of 
him like the sands of an hour-glass. “The doctor said it 
might be years. I’m going to put it out of my mind.” 

Nevertheless, he extended his holiday to a fortnight. 
Fearful of her intuition he upheld the idea of a chill, 
allowed her to nurse him and pet him up, but took his own 
medicines, the result of his visit to Harley Street. Her 
misconception was an excuse for avoiding exertion and he 
insisted on hiring a car from Marseilles, with a well-paid 
chauffeur. He engaged it for three months and laughed at 
her verdict, “Extravagance !” 

“I refuse to have you jolted about in that abominable 
conveyance which brought me from the station. It’s not 
economy if it means employing a bone-setter! We’ll econo- 
mize in Paris by buying your summer frocks. At the pres- 
ent rate of exchange, and considering that the costume of 
Eve seems to be the prevailing fashion, we shall profit by 
the trip.” 

“I don’t trust you in Paris. We went there for our 
honeymoon and even then you squandered money.” 

“‘Even then’!” He laughed at her. “It doesn’t seem 
eight years ago. You don’t look a day older.” 

“That’s because I’ve been spoilt.” She gave him a 
sunny glance. 

“Spoilt by your old husband ?” 


90 


TORQUIL’S SUCCESS 

“You’re not old!” 

He choked back a sigh. 

“Then let’s go over to Marseilles in the car, dine at the 
Reserve and see a highly immoral play that is running at 
the theatre. Then we’ll drive home by moonlight. Put on 
your prettiest frock and I’ll sit beside you and glower at the 
jeunesse doree if they dare to admire my wife — like a true 
British tourist! You’ll come?” 

“If you’re sure you won’t be tired?” 

“Not a bit. It will do me good. I’ll go along to the 
post office and telephone for a box.” 

“Oh, not a box ! Stalls will do.” 

“You leave it to me. I like room for my long legs. Go 
and make yourself beautiful.” 

She succeeded, in Merriman’s fond eyes, and the evening 
was a red-letter one, as unexpected entertainments so often 
turn out to be. The drive home, muffled in wraps, through 
the sweetly-scented air, as the breeze blew off the sea 
through orange flowers and mimosa, drove away all trace 
of fatigue and Merriman’s spirits rose. He dared once more 
to look ahead. 

“Next winter,” he told his wife, “I’ll take a real holiday, 
and I think we’ll go to Algiers — have a villa of our own.” 

“When Torquil has made your fortune?” She laughed 
at him above her furs. 

“Yes.” Merriman looked wicked. “If you smile at 
him like that he won’t desert his publisher. A lot lies in 
your hands!” He thought for a moment and added, “I 
should like to see Torquil in love. He’d be so angry with 
himself for his weakness. It would do him good.” 

“And what about me?” A dimple deepened at the cor- 
ner of her mouth. “A sedate, married woman, divided be- 
tween your jealousy and an aggressive courtship?” 

“You wouldn’t notice it,” said her husband. “That’s 
the blessed part of you. You’d be infinitively motherly — 
the last insult to conscious youth! Meanwhile, I’d like to 
remind you that you belong to me and I don’t allow 
‘followers.’ ” 


THE IRON GATE 91 

“I don’t need anyone but you.” Her candid eyes met 
his, suddenly grave. 

“Sure?” he persisted. 

“Quite sure.” 

It was the truth, yet Merriman felt a swift pang of 
jealousy. Long ago he had realized that Josephine held 
but a small conception of the heights and depths of passion- 
ate love. She was unawakened, a child in emotion. Faith- 
ful, deeply attached to him and grateful for the protection 
that had sheltered her, a lonely orphan, since the day when 
she had met her husband, her love was that of a girl for a 
loyal and devoted guardian. Was it a sign of her tempera- 
ment, the flesh as delicate as the spirit, or merely the sleep of 
ignorance ? This was the question he asked himself. Mer- 
riman had been no saint in his early years. He understood 
women; but Josephine stood apart, sacred, beyond his ex- 
perience. And this was the charm that held a man by nature 
an epicure and keenly alive to beauty in its highest form — 
that of truth. She was the crowning treasure of his ardent 
collector’s soul, something rare and unique. But he fore- 
saw that the day might come when Josephine would be 
changed, for better or worse, the miracle accomplished by 
a younger man, who would awaken her to passion. His 
Josephine. Would it be Heron? For a moment his faith 
wavered. Then he felt a hand slip softly into his and the 
gentle voice he loved murmured : 

“Tired?” 

“No, my darling. And you?” 

“Just happily tired,” said Josephine. 


CHAPTER VIII 


W HEN Torquil stepped out of the night rapide at 
Marseilles, bewildered by the stir of the busy 
station, he was almost too weary to find his way 
to the train awaiting his on the coast line to Toulon. Still 
weak from his illness, the journey, started in high hope, 
had become a dragging nightmare, sleep rendered im- 
possible by a crowded carriage — the windows sealed — that 
jarred and bumped as they roared along over the uneven 
rails, heavily taxed during the war. 

The relief of a fresh and empty compartment, as the slow 
train moved out, was marred by the fact that he dared not 
give way to his intolerable drowsiness for fear of missing 
his destination. But he drew down the blinds beside him 
to avoid the sudden white glare between the seemingly 
endless tunnels, too ill to care where he was and to face the 
early light. 

At St. Cyr la Cadiere he stumbled out, sick and faint, 
with a sense of unreality, to hunt for his heavy luggage. 
The volubility of an official, who refused to render it 
up and endeavoured in vain to point out to the harassed 
traveller that it must wait for the Customs, proved the last 
disillusion. After a feeble spurt of anger, Torquil found 
himself gently propelled through the barriere into the road, 
where Josephine’s chauffeur rescued him. There followed 
a blinding drive between grotesquely lopped poplars to- 
wards a shimmering blue line, that was finally blotted out 
by a village, which they entered. 

The car stopped. Through a mist, he descended at the 
door of a Villa that slept, its green shutters closed, and was 

92 


THE IRON GATE 


93 


greeted by a dark woman whose face seemed familiar. 
Torquil tried to find his voice, in the cool, tiled hall, clutched 
at a chair behind him and collapsed utterly. 

The next thing he realized was a wiry arm that supported 
his shoulders, whilst a comforting voice in his own language 
was urging him to drink from a glass pressed to his pallid 
lips. 

“Monsieur is dead of fatigue.” filise, compassionate, 
tilted the glass and Torquil gulped. “Monsieur must seek 
’is bed, and repose ’imself, without delay.” 

The cognac ran like fire through his veins and slowly his 
vision cleared. He struggled up. 

“I’m sorry. Stupid of me! I’ve been ill,” he explained 
jerkily. 

“One can see zat.” fdise was shocked at the change in 
the young man’s appearance. “If Monsieur would lean on 
my arm? ’Is room is on ze ground floor. A good sleep is 
what ’e needs, after ’is so long journey. Madame is still 
au lit — she will not expect to see Monsieur till lunch. Par 

ici ” She helped him along the corridor and opened a 

door at the end. 

He found himself in a room filled with a cool, green light 
that filtered through the paravents and was soothing after 
the dusty glare. Llise left him, to reappear with his coflee 
and rolls, over her arm a faded pair of pyjamas. 

“If Monsieur would use zese — zey belong to Mr. Mer- 
riman — until ’is own luggage arrive.” She laid them on the 
bed beside him. 

“It’s at the station,” Torquil complained. “They wouldn’t 
let me take it away.” 

“It is always so by zis train.” Llise smiled reassuringly. 
“Ze douane opens at eleven and, if Monsieur ’as nozing to 
declare, ze chauffeur will see to it. Is zere anysing more 
Monsieur desires?” She frowned as Torquil begged for 
a bath. “Later on. It would not be wise for Monsieur in 
’is present state. I will see zat Monsieur is called in time 
— when ze water will be ’otter.” 

He was too tired to resist, touched as well by the kindness 


94 


TORQUIL’S SUCCESS 

in the Brittany maid’s face, so austere when last seen. For 
her motherly instincts were aroused. 

“Au revoir, monsieur — et dormez bien!” She went out 
noiselessly. 

Torquil obeyed her commands. Lost in his host’s 
pyjamas, he welcomed the cool touch of the pillows. The 
last thing he realized, as sleep claimed him, was the sense 
of an unfamiliar, spicy smell that drifted up from the waxed 
floor, and a delicate rustle beyond the shutters like in- 
numerable slips of paper, stirred by a playful breeze. It 
rose and fell intermittently. 

Rose and fell. ... It was manuscript. Alive with 
swiftly forming phrases, the magical blend of long-sought 
words that printed themselves on his brain. If only he had 
the will to stir himself and capture them. . . . He tossed in 
his sleep as the dream pursued him ; then slipped into deeper 
unconsciousness. 

When he awoke, for the first moment, he thought him- 
self still in the train on that endless night journey, the green 
shade drawn over the lamp. Relieved, he came to his 
senses and stared round the shuttered room, with its sparse 
furniture, polished floor and luxurious sense of space. The 
light had veered from the south window to the west one, 
facing his bed, and it was tinged with a faint rose. He 
groped for his watch on the table. Four o’clock? He was 
horrified. He sat up, wide awake, and became aware of a 
tray, with fruit and wine, by his bedside. A note lay on 
the plate. With a sense of guilt he opened it. How could 
he have overslept himself? 

“Dear Torquil,” he read. 

“Sleep as long as you can and don’t worry! I’m 
going out in the car this afternoon and I shan’t expect to 
see you till dinner. Your luggage is here. Ring when you 
want it, but remember you’ve come to rest, and that this 
is Lotus land ! 

“Hoping you’re better, 

“J. L. M ” 


THE IRON GATE 


95 


He felt a lump rise in his throat. The loneliness of his 
long illness and the black depression left by it had shaken 
his fortitude. He was moved by this evidence of her kind- 
ness and by a swift desire to see Josephine and thank her. 

He slipped out of bed and was aware of a new sense of 
vigour, also of a pang of hunger. But first, he must look 
through the window. He crossed the room and threw back 
the shutters. The dazzling light blinded him; he caught 
his breath, surprised, enchanted. For, below him, lay the 
sea. 

Peacock blue, with indigo shadows, it stretched away into 
space to meet a sky already touched by the sunset and shot 
with amethyst. He had never seen such colouring. It was 
not the surface blue of the water he had watched on English 
shores; it reached down through endless depth, bearing 
translucent light with it. And the sky had the same quality, 
as though the veil had been torn from its face, to reveal 
infinite worlds beyond. 

Across the southern front of the Villa ran a broad balcony. 
Torquil reached for his overcoat, flung it on and stepped 
out. From here, he could have thrown a pebble into the 
sea, where it sucked the stones of a little grey pier, a broken- 
down landing-stage, jutting out from the strip of beach, 
immediately below the house. On this a barefooted urchin 
stood, with a primitive fishing-rod, his eyes glued on his 
float, that barely moved on the tide-less ripple. To Tor- 
quil’s right was a headland, with a ruined Martello tower, 
and the bay swept inwards, sheltered, serene, and guarded by 
the eastern shore, behind which rose the curve of hills, the 
first outposts of the Alps. 

He leaned over the iron rail, drinking in the perfect scene, 
and saw there was a floor beneath him on this side of the 
Villa. For it was built on a slope. He could hear a throaty 
voice singing and a clatter of cooking pots. Firewood and 
fir-cones were piled on the platform of beaten earth outside 
the kitchen door, and beyond this a little stream, shallow 
and milky-blue, flowed eagerly down to the sea. 

On the bank knelt a pair of women, their sleeves rolled 


96 


TORQUIL’S SUCCESS 

up to their shoulders, vigorously slapping wet piles of linen 
on the boulders that cleared the water. Torquil, intrigued, 
was watching them and their primitive laundry-work when 
he was roused by the soft rustle he had noticed earlier. He 
turned his head to search for the cause. The sound came 
from a giant palm weighed down with its burden of leaves, 
the tapering ends burnt by the sun. Crisp and dry, as the 
wind moved them, they brushed one against another. 

Now he could see the Villa garden, curiously devoid of 
green to his English eyes but relieved by the myrtle and 
silver note of eucalyptus and mimosa, heavy with canary 
bloom. The garden seemed to consist of paths with stony 
banks where freesia flourished, heliotrope and tiny roses. 
But the parched earth cried out for water, and sand took 
the place of grass. 

On the lower terrace above the sea were wicker chairs 
and a bright awning, a shelter from the noonday sun. As 
he stood, breathing in the air, light and filled with southern 
scents, he saw a slender figure emerge and glance up at the 
windows. Before he had time to retreat, aware of his 
ruffled head and scanty garments, Josephine waved. She 
mounted the few steps leading to the higher level. 

“How are you?” she cried laughing. “Feeling rested, I 
hope ?” 

“Rather! But very ashamed of myself.” He leaned 
down over the rail, devoutly hoping that his coat covered 
his bare feet. “I only woke ten minutes ago, and I couldn’t 
resist looking out. How lovely it all is!” 

“Then get up and come down. We’ll have tea in the 
garden.” 

“I will. It was awfully good of you to let me sleep on 
like that.” 

“Nonsense! You do as you like here. That’s the beauty 
of the place.” She smiled at him, her face uplifted, her 
slim throat gleaming white, soft hair stirred by the breeze. 
She looked younger than ever, he thought, with a faint 
touch of mischief in her luminous grey eyes as though she 
divined his embarrassment. “Put on a warm suit. It gets 


THE IRON GATE 


97 


chilly after sunset, quite another temperature. Ring for 
£lise and order your bath — the other servants don’t speak 
English. But perhaps I’m insulting you?” Her laugh 
rippled up to him. 

“No, I’m a poor French scholar. I must try and improve 
myself.” 

“Not at first. No lessons and no work, until you’re 
stronger. You’ll find me most severe!” She saw him 
make a little grimace, and was prepared for his protest. 

“But I shall feel like writing here.” The rustle of the 
palm beside him awoke a dormant memory. “I started a 
book in my dreams.” His thin face grew wistful, but 
Josephine shook her head. 

“Then forget it! It will all come back when you’ve re- 
gained your health. Besides, think of the fresh copy that 
Les Lecques will provide? By and by, you shall write.” 
She checked his response with a quick gesture. “Go and 
dress — here’s Mrs. Rollit!” 

Torquil, in a panic, fled. He drew the shutters together 
and peered out through the slats, curious to see his fellow- 
guest. Mr. Merriman had alluded to her without adding 
any details beyond the fact of her relationship to his 
wife. 

Torquil saw a large lady, in widow’s weeds, who carried 
herself with dignity, briskly approach Josephine, a holland 
umbrella over her head. Her rings sparkled in the sun- 
shine; she looked leisurely and assured, and his heart sank. 
He placed her at once as a member of “Society” and im- 
agined she would patronize him; that she was one of a class 
who asked, not what a man did, but what he was, pointedly ! 

Voices floated up to him. First that of his hostess in- 
quiring if “Kate” had enjoyed her walk; then Mrs. Rollit’s 
warm contralto : 

“Very much — a perfect day. Unluckily my suspender 
came down as I reached the village. But I remembered 
we were in France, where nothing of that sort matters. A 
dear old man lent me a pin. So practical, the French 
peasants.” 


98 


TORQUIL’S SUCCESS 

Torquil choked with surprise and laughter. Mrs. Rollit 
proceeded calmly in her deep, well-bred voice : 

“Yes, a very pleasant walk. I had a chat with Madame 
Simone at that little hotel on the beach. Her daughter 
from Arles is there now with a new baby, on a visit. And 
a nurse — a nou-nou , all cap and ribbons ! I call it ridiculous ! 
She ought to nurse the child herself. I told her so. It's 
only pride — just to impress the neighbours. I said to her 
— she's quite young — ‘What do you suppose, my dear, the 
Almighty gave you ’ ” 

From Josephine came a nervous interruption : 

“Hush! Torquil’s awake. He’ll hear you.” 

“Dear me,” said Mrs. Rollit. “Is he as young as all 
that? I hope that I shan’t have to study each word I say 
before him! As you know, I always speak my mind — 
even when I talk to Maurice.” 

Who was Maurice, Torquil wondered. Was the Villa full 
of guests? He put the question to filise as she led him to 
the bath-room and was perplexed by her reply. 

He soon learned who Maurice was. As real and insepa- 
rable an adjunct to the widow as the holland umbrella or the 
marquise ring on her finger which had graced three genera- 
tions. 

He took to “Kate.” She was indiscreet in speech but 
amazingly tactful in habit. Fond of solitude — with Maurice 
— she would vanish and leave the other guest to enjoy to the 
full Josephine’s care in an undisturbed tete-a-tete. She was 
a great walker and disdained the use of the car. This 
allowed Torquil to usurp the seat by his hostess’ side as 
they swept down the straight white roads to those curving 
ones mounting the hills, cut like shelves in the rock, with 
perilous corners and sheer descents. 

At first these drives were curtailed, for he was very 
quickly tired and unused to an open-air life. He would lie 
for hours on the terrace, a book unread in his hand, and 
gaze out over the dazzling water, drowsy in the light and 
warmth, watching the humming-bird moths dart past to 


99 


THE IRON GATE 

bore into the heart of a flower and rise again with their 
curious hum, like that of a distant Zeppelin. It was 
Josephine who pointed out his first locust and told Torquil 
of the swallow-tailed butterflies with their sulphur wings, 
long and pointed, the edges scalloped with chocolate, who 
would be the harbingers of summer. 

Everything enchanted him. He was like a child loosed 
from school, adventuring on a treasure hunt. Josephine 
entered into the game, slaking his growing thirst for knowl- 
edge. She told him legends of the country. Of the great 
battle in the plains above Les Lecques where Marius with 
his Roman legions had destroyed the barbarian hordes 
that were plundering fair Provence, wiping them out 
utterly, under the counsels of Marthe, his Syrian prophetess. 
How from this mighty victory had been evolved the Chris- 
tian legend of Sainte Marthe taming the Tarasque, a monster 
that stood for paganism. Torquil had read his Tartarin. 
Eagerly he begged for more. 

He would lie there, eyes half-closed, and dream of a 
journey to Aix to see King Rene’s Book of Hours in the 
beautiful library; or, further still, to St. Remy with its 
Roman monuments and the bones of Hannibal’s elephant 
piled up in the Rue du Geant. 

Mrs. Rollit would join them for tea and take him into 
another world, with stories of people she had met in her 
sunny, wandering life. Never malicious, she yet possessed 
a sense of humor and caricature. She was full of Riviera 
gossip; from the source of a Russian dancer’s jewels at 
Monte Carlo to the capture of a sedate British chaplain by 
a determined spinster in the old town at Bordighera. 

She decided that Torquil was not “too young” to face 
her outspoken comments and, in the close intimacy of the 
sheltered Villa, her reckless tongue would wag on, unchecked 
by the hostess, weak from laughter. 

“It’s all very well scolding me,” Kate would say cheer- 
fully, “but it does that boy good to laugh. Fills his lungs 
with pure air.” 

“And his mind?” queried Josephine. 


100 


TORQUIL’S SUCCESS 

Kate would snort and arrange her rings. 

“He’s not as innocent as he looks 1” 

“Now now” corrected Torquil, with a sly side-long 
glance at her. 

His good looks were returning fast and the comely widow 
was not averse to the hint of a flirtation. She was tired of 
elderly admirers and Torquil could be very charming. 
Josephine would watch them, amused. If Mrs. Rollit 
waxed too sentimental, he would retire into his shell, or 
feign a sudden drowsiness. Kate would chuckle, fully 
aware of the careful limits he set himself ; then, openly, 
make love to him. It was a part of his “cure” — what she 
called “taking him out of himself!” Maurice had “told” 
her to be “kind to a young man in poor health.” 

“He might be my son,” she said, smiling, one morning to 
Josephine. 

“Then you’re bringing him up very badly,” her cousin 
promptly retorted. “I’m shocked at you. That story last 
night made me blush !” 

“It was very becoming, my dear,” said the widow. And 
scored. Josephine was silenced. 

Mrs. Rollit had not approved of her cousin’s marriage to 
Merriman. She considered Richard “far too old.” It 
would do Josephine good, she decided, to be with Youth for 
a change. A clever boy, too, like Torquil. And there was 
no fear of complications; Josephine was too quiet, and 
besides, he was not her equal in birth. She held no delu- 
sions on this point, although, as his health improved, a trace 
of his old arrogance and self-sufficiency returned. 

Only from Josephine would he brook opposition. It was 
his unconscious surrender to her fragility and grace. Her 
easy friendliness forbade the suspicion of flirtation, yet she 
stirred him. He was supremely conscious of the romance 
that seemed to form as much a part of the southern land as 
the unconsidered, clustering roses that took the place of 
the English hawthorn. As the weeks passed on, he began 
to dread the coming day of separation, to treasure the hours 
he spent with her and to scheme ahead expeditions in which 


THE IRON GATE 


101 


Mrs. Rollit took no part. Even in sleep, Josephine’s face 
would rise before him, starry-eyed. He knew each familiar 
movement of her little hands that unconsciously copied the 
foreign gestures, and the quick tilt of her head on its 
slender throat when, interested, she would look up to his 
greater height, amused, thoughtful or touched with pity. 

There were evenings when they strolled along the untidy 
little beach fringing the tideless waters when he longed to 
pick her up in his arms and run with all his returning 
strength away from Kate and the trim Villa to those magical 
violet hills, a conqueror like Hannibal, undaunted by the 
Alps. But he would not admit that it was love. It was 
physical unrest, the result of idle hours. He must work — 
that was the cure — resisting these side-paths of emotion. 
He scorned himself for his weakness, and ambition awoke 
from its long sleep. 

Kate noticed a change in him; his silences and absorp- 
tion. She put it down to calf-love, fully aware of his 
admiration for Josephine. It wouldn’t hurt him, at his age. 
It lowered a young man’s conceit. His manners were im- 
proving, too — Josephine’s influence ! 

She watched the pair off one morning for a long-coveted 
expedition that would take the whole day. The hostess, in 
vain, had tried to persuade her to join in the picnic, but 
Kate had pleaded innumerable letters awaiting reply, and a 
disposition to laze, and read a recent French novel. They 
left her standing at the gate under the holland umbrella, 
cheerful as ever and independent, and settled down to their 
long drive. 

They were going to visit the famous grotto where Mary 
Magdalene was reputed to have spent the last thirty years 
of her life in a penitence that had glorified Sainte Baume 
into a pilgrim’s shrine. Here her daily tears had flowed, 
giving birth to the miracle of a stream that wandered 
through the plains to empty itself in the Bouches du Rhone. 

Torquil was in silent mood and Josephine was content 
to lean back in the car and give herself up to the drowsy 
peace. They lunched by the wayside in an orchard, descend- 


102 


TORQUIL’S SUCCESS 

ing in terraces edged by the cut-back vines, with silvery 
olive trees over their heads. Here and there pale wind- 
flowers nodded above the wiry grass with amaranths and 
spotted orchids. Ferns clustered in the stones. 

Torquil had stretched himself full length, his elbows dug 
into the ground, his chin propped on his hands. He watched 
Josephine sip her coffee, the thermos flask that had held 
it safe between the roots of the tree. Her linen frock 
of pervenclie blue was the right colour, he decided, against 
the supporting trunk. She smiled at him lazily over the rim 
of her cup. 

“Well?” 

“It’s not well at all. I’ve a serious confession to make. 
I hope you won’t be vexed with me, but I’ve been writing 
these last mornings. Early, before breakfast.” He looked 
like a guilty schoolboy. 

“I knew.” 

“How?” He was taken aback. 

“filise told me. She found a sheet of manuscript under 
your table when she was looking to see that the housemaid 
had polished the floor. But I hadn’t the heart to scold you ! 
If you work in moderation, I don’t think it will hurt you 
now. Is it a new book?” 

“Yes.” He was inwardly relieved by the indulgent way 
she took it. “And a new departure, too. It’s a modern 
romance — a love-story.” 

“With a happy ending?” 

“I’m afraid so.” He laughed, aware of the rueful note. 
“Tragedy and Les Lecques don’t seem to go together. I 

can’t be unhappy in this sunshine. And besides ” He 

hesitated, frowning. 

“I hope you’re putting Kate in it. She’d love that.” 
Josephine smiled. 

“I am. And you.” 

“Oh, no !” She recoiled instinctively from the suggestion. 

“I must.” His voice was low and earnest. “You’re a 
part of Les Lecques, of — everything! If I don’t I shall 
ruin the book. No one will know. I’ll wrap it up. No 


THE IRON GATE 


103 


portrait — just your character. Besides, I’m making you — 
unmarried.” He paused. “I can see you like that. A 
girl.” His eyes were averted. 

“I would rather you didn’t.” She spoke gravely. “Do 
you know I’ve been married for eight years ? You mustn’t 
make me ridiculous.” 

“ ‘Ridiculous’ !” His voice was hot. He gazed past her 
at the olives, crestfallen. “I thought you’d like it. It’s 
going to be my best book.” His shoulders stiffened; he 
looked aggressive. Josephine saw that he was hurt. 

“I like the idea behind it.” She found herself in a cleft 
stick. “Yes, perhaps it’s silly of me. Tell me more of the 
story ?” 

“Not yet.” He shook his head. “I’m still wrestling with 
the construction. It’s all rather new to me. As you know, 
my first books held very little about women. They were 
written against a background of war.” 

“But haven’t you ever been in love?” She was curious. 
“I should think, at your age — as a matter of fact I don’t 
know how old you are.” 

“I’m twenty-six,” said Torquil. His eyes came round 
to her face with obvious question in them. 

She answered it, without hesitation. 

“And I was thirty-one last birthday. So, as you see, I 
can’t pose as a girl!” The colour had stolen up under 
her skin. The confession had cost her a slight effort. 

Torquil had placed her as twenty-eight. He smiled at 
the thought that crossed his mind, then voiced it. 

“Nine years younger than Cleopatra at the height 'of her 
beauty and her charm. When she ruined Mark Antony.” 
His voice changed on the last word with a sombre resent- 
ment. 

“Ruined ?” Her eyebrows went up. She was rather hazy 
about the story that had seemed to her one of deathless 
love. 

“Why, of course! The greatest general of the age — 
trusted by Caesar, embarked on a military mission — who let 
his victories go to seed — for the sake of a courtesan!” 


104 


TORQUIL’S SUCCESS 

“Hardly that — a great queen.” 

“Birth makes no difference to morals,” Torquil retorted 
hotly. “He had Rome at his feet, a vast empire, and he 
sacrificed power and duty for love.” 

“And you think power is finer than love?” 

“Finer than passion, anyhow.” He stood up and stretched 
himself. “I despise that — I always have.” 

“Perhaps you're right,” said Josephine. “If Cleopatra 
had really loved Antony, she would have released him to his 
duty. A finer proof of devotion than making away with 
herself. But we should have lost a golden romance. If you 
had to choose” — she was teasing him now — “which would 
you prefer, Torquil? To whitewash Cleopatra, or retain 
the asp and Shakespeare’s play?” 

Torquil gave her a sharp glance. He was always suspi- 
cious of mockery. 

“No good asking me. I don’t understand women. Least 
of all, a ‘serpent of Nile’! They interfere with a man’s 
work.” 

Josephine’s laugh rang out. 

“That’s hedging! No answer at all. It’s a thorny point 
for an author, literature versus ethics ! So I think I’ll leave 
it and pack up.” She reached for the thermos flask and 
drew back her hand sharply, to whisper, “Torquil, come 
here — quite quietly — and look.” 

He knelt down beside her as she pointed to a tuft of 
grass. 

“Whatever is it? A sort of locust?” 

“No, it’s a Praying Mantis. Have you never read Cun- 
ninghame Graham’s beautiful story about it? Oh, you must. 
It prays, its face turned to the east, with those curious front 
feet held up and folded together piously, all day long — 
when it’s not fighting ! The attitude is suggestive of a wor- 
shipper bending forward over a prie-Dieu. That’s how it gets 
its name. To see two of them in battle is to realize the 
hidden savage. They fight to the death — it’s stupendous!” 

“Muscular Christianity,” Torquil suggested dryly. “ ‘If 
you don’t believe, I’ll knock you down.’ I hate to spoil a 


THE IRON GATE 


105 


good story, but it's praying now due south. There it goes !” 

They watched it rise, like a skeleton locust, and sail away, 
on brittle, iridescent wings. 

‘‘The peasants capture them and keep them in little cages 
made of grass. They back their champions to fight. You 
must remember that for your book.” 

“Rather!” He helped her collect the scattered plates 
and pack them away in the picnic hamper, then went off to 
stir up the chauffeur who had retired to smoke in peace, 
one eye on the car. 

Josephine could hear Torquil whistling as he sprang 
down the succeeding terraces where the earth was banked 
up against the mortarless, stone walls; a defence against 
the rain that would have destroyed the fertile levels holding 
the vine roots. It was good to see him getting so healthy, 
but she was a little troubled by their earlier conversation. 
He should have guessed that it might be awkward for her 
to figure in a novel — apparently, as the heroine — that was 
issued from her husband’s house. If Richard should recog- 
nize her, she felt sure he would not like it. On the other 
hand, Torquil seemed to consider it a graceful attention! 
A pity he hadn’t seen more of the world. She did not like 
to appear ungrateful, yet she resented the suggestion of all 
her kindness turned to ‘copy.’ It made her feel unsafe with 
him. And how furious David would be! Quite suddenly 
she longed for Heron and his advice at the present juncture. 

Torquil hailed her from the road and she joined him in 
the waiting car, as the chauffeur packed away the hamper. 
They gathered pace on the dusty road, leaving a white cloud 
behind them. Torquil gave her a sidelong glance. 

“Is anything worrying you?” It was said so anxiously 
that her courage failed her. 

“Nothing.” She smiled. She could not spoil the after- 
noon. He might change his mind about the book. In any 
case she could read it first. 

“Sure? Then do explain to me how Mary Magdalene 
ever came to these parts? It’s a long step from the Holy 
Land. I suppose it’s only a legend?” 


106 


TORQUIL’S SUCCESS 

“Yet Lazarus is said to be buried at Marseilles — in the 
crypts of St. Vincent. They even show his bones on fete 
days.” 

“That’s simple.” Torquil’s dark eyes twinkled. “Do 
you remember Anatole France and the sacred relics in his 
L’lle des Pingouinsf Anyhow, Lazarus was resurrected to 
some purpose if he visited Les Lecques.” 

“You’re not to scoff at the Scriptures. I like to believe 
the legends myself. They certainly bring home religion to 
the peasant mind and focus it. Like the ever open churches. 
It’s a religion that suits the land.” 

“Yes. If I had been Mary Magdalene” — his sunburnt 
face looked wicked — “I should certainly have headed for 
France. I mean, I wouldn’t have gone to England.” 

Josephine struggled against her amusement. 

“Torquil!” She corrected him. 

“Not in the winter,” he amended. “Too cold, after Pales- 
tine. Tell me how she arrived?” 

“On a raft with the three other Maries, Martha and 
Lazarus. They were cast adrift by the Jews, who feared to 
destroy them openly, and were driven to France by a great 
storm after leaving the port at Jaffa. Lazarus and his sister 
went to Marseilles. There she left him and wandered on 
to Sainte Baume. Mary Salome and Mary the mother of 
James, with their servant Sarah, the chosen saint of the 
gipsies, remained on the shore and built a cell. They are 
buried there in a fortress church, part of it tenth century, at 
Les Saintes Maries de la Mer, in the sandy desert of the 
Camargue. It’s a place I want to see, and also Aigues- 
mortes, which is not far from there; a wonderful walled 
city built by Philip the Bold and from which the Crusaders . 
set forth. But it can’t be done in a day. It means sleeping 
a night at Arles.” 

“I could do it on my way home,” said Torqyil. He 
hesitated, and went on rather brusquely, “It’s about time 
I made my plans. Do you know I’ve been here nearly a 
month ?” 


107 


THE IRON GATE 

“Are you tired of Les Lecques?” She smiled at him. 
“No? Then why talk .of leaving yet? I want to see you 
quite strong and I’m afraid of your working too hard if 
you've no restraining hand. Besides, when Kate departs 
next week I’ve a girl coming to me from England, and 
you'll have to help me entertain her.'' 

“A girl?” Torquil looked suspicious. 

“Yes — a pretty one, too!” She was amused by his ex- 
pression. 

“I don’t care for girls,” said Torquil. 

“You prefer women of Kate’s years?” She was laugh- 
ing openly now. 

“Much. They've more sense. And they don't expect — 

expect a man ” He broke off, confused and surly. “Oh, 

you know what I mean. I loathe girls.” 

“Then I shall have to put Daisy off.” 

“Oh, could you? Would you?” He turned to her, his 
face alight, his eyes more eloquent than he knew. “It would 
be top-hole! I could write — I swear I wouldn’t worry 
you — and read what I'd written in the evenings aloud, if 
you cared to hear it. You could help me no end. Say you 
mean it?” His voice pleaded. 

She had not meant it in the least, but she was a little 
moved herself by his evident desire for her sole companion- 
ship. 

“I’ll see,” she conceded. “Anyhow, you're not to dream 
of going yet. Why, you're only just alive again. You 
looked a ghost when you came.” 

“Lazarus — risen from the dead ! A pretty true simile.” 

“There’s an idea for a book,” she suggested. “What 
he thought of this world when he returned to it. If only 
he had left a record ?” A mystical light was in her eyes. 

Torquil resented it. Like all sceptics he disliked evidences 
of another’s faith. 

“It was probably catalepsy, with complete unconscious- 
ness. No, it’s no good your frowning at me. I can't swallow 
miracles.” 


108 


TORQUIL’S SUCCESS 

“Although you’re very superstitious?” 

“To a certain extent. I don’t believe in 'Maurice,’ for 
instance.” 

They both laughed. 

“It comforts Kate.” Josephine spoke kindly. 

“Exactly. He never answers back! I found that out. 
He only agrees; the pleasant side of matrimony. And he 
never interferes with her pleasures. He appears when he’s 
wanted — not otherwise. I should rather like a spirit wife. 
To put away on a shelf, when I’m working, and take down 
and dust, in the intervals.” 

“You wait till you fall in love!” Josephine looked mis- 
chievous. 

“That’s a different thing,” said Torquil. “I was speak- 
ing of marriage. I shall never marry,” he added abruptly. 

“You will.” She nodded her head wisely. 

He gave her a curious, scared glance. 

“Not I. Too much of a risk.” 

“Look!” She touched him on the arm, her attention 
suddenly arrested by the scene that met her eyes as they 
rounded a sharp curve. 

From the plain where a fann and hamlet sheltered rose 
towering heights, darkly wooded, with naked gaps of rocky 
cliff in the heart of the steep ascent. In one of these open 
spaces they could see a circular dark patch, blotting the 
limestone, midway between the valley and the sky-line. 
Josephine pointed to it. 

“That’s the mouth of the grotto. You see that tiny 
pointed dot on the very top of the ridge? It’s the ruined 
chapel of St. Pilou. It was built by the monks, a Dominican 
order who lived below at Sainte Baume. The monastery’s 
now an hotel.” 

“A good thing too,” said Torquil smiling. His voice 
changed. “I’ve no respect for an enforced celibacy — any 
more than prohibition ! It’s self-restraint that makes a man, 
not prison bars.” His mouth tightened. "To have, and 
be able to cast aside.” He was silent until they reached the 
farm. 


CHAPTER IX 


W ORK! He built it up like a wall between him- 
self and his desire. Yet Josephine’s spell per- 
sisted. Love crept into the closely-written pages 
and quickened his inspiration. He knew it to be a better 
book than anything as yet attempted. It was infinitely 
more human. In place of the bitter philosophy and detached 
reason that hitherto had marked his principal character 
were the warm impulses of youth, its dreams and its per- 
plexities. For the hero was always Torquil and the change 
was in the man himself. 

He yielded to the temptation of reading the finished 
chapters to Josephine, as the days slipped past, after Kate 
had departed. No other visitor appeared to break the calm 
of those quiet evenings. Fortune had played into his hands 
by sending a serious illness to “Daisy’s” mother, detain- 
ing the former by the invalid’s bedside. He had his lady to 
himself. 

But he kept his secret profoundly guarded, proud of his 
self-control. Nevertheless, he allowed himself full scope 
for dangerous thoughts, and he compromised with his con- 
science when he read aloud to her, not only the author, 
detached and absorbed, but the hero of his story, face to 
face with the beloved. 

Josephine sometimes wondered at the virile force that 
deepened his voice as he sat, eyes riveted on the pages of 
his manuscript. She believed him wrapped up in his work, 
stirred by it to an emotion untouched in actual life. She 
did not guess that it had become a safety valve for his 
passion. She was relieved, too, to find that his idealized 
conception of her and his careful avoidance of physical 

109 


110 


TORQUIL’S SUCCESS 

traits made the portrait of his heroine unrecognizable. 

He had slipped so securely into the life at the Villa that 
his presence there seemed natural, and she was proud of 
the marked improvement in his health. In her letters to 
Merriman she dwelt on this and took the credit. She was 
adamant over the hours for work. Though Torquil fretted, 
he obeyed her. All this she confided to Richard. 

“He’s so improved, in every way. Really, a dear fellow. 
I’m getting very fond of Torquil.” She meant it, with no 
afterthought, “filise told his fortune last night. She pre- 
dicts a big success for him, after ‘dark days.’ Let’s hope 
these are over. I rather fancy she was glad when the black 
cards turned up ! She has never really taken to him and is 
mysterious on the subject. Torquil divines this. It’s amus- 
ing to watch them together. He’s hard at work at his new 
book. He has read me a part and it’s most absorbing. Less 
cynical than his first novel and he refrains from mounting 
a pulpit and airing his views on his bugbear — caste! He’s 
not half such a rebel. Les Lecques is broadening his out- 
look and Kate, unconsciously, helped in this. You should 
have seen her flirting with him!” 

To which Merriman replied: “I’m glad of your news. 
Don’t spoil the boy! Keep him as long as he’s amusing 
and pack him off when you’re tired.” He had no anxiety 
on her score, though, sometimes, he envied his author. He 
could picture his wife in her present role, of nurse, critic, 
and confidante, and was amused at the growing friend- 
ship. 

His own health had improved of late under medical treat- 
ment and he began to count the weeks to the holiday he had 
promised to take with her in Paris. His business was im- 
proving, too. He was bringing out a book of memoirs by a 
famous diplomatist, long-promised and now in the press. 
Heron had read a part. Whole-heartedly enthusiastic, he 
had offered to review it in one of the leading papers. Merri- 
man was looking forward to the stir it would cause in 
critical circles, enjoying his favorite game of arousing pub- 
lic interest and of pulling private wires. He had also bought 


THE IRON GATE 


111 


a fine piece of tapestry, at a private sale where its value 
was unrecognized in the demand for furniture, and was 
glorying in his bargain. 

Josephine, sitting on the terrace, smiled when she came 
to this part in his letter. 

“He’ll be happy for a whole week !” she decided, fold- 
ing the hurriedly-written page to replace it in its envelope. 
“I only trust there’s no moth in the lining.” She glanced 
up at the sky, conscious that the sun had vanished under 
a bank of clouds. Beyond the ruined Martello Tower — • 
a relic of some occupation in the constantly changing con- 
quest of these pirate-haunted shores — she could see verti- 
cal, silver lines slanting down towards the sea. “It’s rain- 
ing at La Ciotat. I hope Torquil won’t get wet.” 

He had gone for a tramp inland to think out his next 
day’s work, in a sudden fit of restlessness, after their early 
tea. A cold wind swept over the garden and the palms 
creaked and groaned before it. A little whirl of dust rose 
up, full of grit and pine-needles, and a shutter in the house 
slammed. Josephine rose hurriedly and gathered her papers 
and work together. 

“It’s coming,” she said, with a glance at the sea, where 
white horses were rearing their crests on the tumbled waves, 
and a column of spray flashed up from the broken stones 
of the pier. 

She was running towards the house when she saw Tor- 
quil open the gate. He was bare-headed, his hair ruffled, 
his face glowing with exercise. It struck Josephine suddenly 
what a handsome man he was, with his dark, clever face, 
length of limb and supple figure. 

He greeted her excitedly, as they met on the upper 
terrace : 

“I must tell you ” 

“Indoors,” she breathed. “There’s a storm coming, and 
one of the shutters is loose upstairs. £lise!” she cried, as 
she reached the porch. 

None too soon, for the rain and wind buffeted Torquil in 
her wake. 


112 TORQUIL’S SUCCESS 

The dark face of the Brittany maid peered over the 
banisters. 

“Bien, madame!” She vanished quickly to execute her 
mistress’ orders. 

Josephine, panting a little, laid down her armful of books 
in the salon, and turned to her impatient guest. 

“Now, what is it? How hot you look! Close the win- 
dow — you’ll catch cold.” 

“I’m all right. Do listen!” Aware of her divided atten- 
tion he obeyed her, frowning, then broke out : “I’ve 

seen ” He was incoherent. “I didn’t think it possible! 

Not out of Greece, anyhow.” 

Josephine laughed. She settled herself on the sofa, pre- 
pared to hear his adventure. 

“Have you had a glimpse of Diana?” 

“Something like it,” he retorted. He threw himself into 
an arm-chair, his long legs thrust out, his hands deep in 
his pockets. “If you’re going to mock, I shan’t tell you !” 

“Please?” But she still smiled at him, at first with mis- 
chief, then with affection. What a child it was ! So quickly 
resentful, so anxious to pour out its news. “I’m listening,” 
she said penitently. 

The light came back to his eyes. 

“It was up in the hills — the other side of St. Cyr, right 
away from the main road. I’d climbed a rough sheep 
track that twisted in and out of the rocks. A bare country. 
No trees and no vineyards. I was resting on a shelf of 
sand-stone, thinking out my next chapter when I first heard 
it — the queerest tune.” 

He paused and she followed his fanciful vein: 

“Panpipes?” Her grey eyes danced. 

Torquil nodded triumphantly. 

“And then I saw Pan himself.” He leaned forward and 
spoke quickly. “You must try and picture the scene. The 
rocks and the scorched grass, with the sky nakedly blue 
above them, the wildest, barest spot — not a sign of human 
life. Then, suddenly, a dancing figure, burnt to the colour 
of the sand, bare-legged, in a ragged smock of faded blue, 


THE IRON GATE 


113 


with mad, blue eyes. He came skipping round the rocks, 
a pipe pressed to his shaggy lips; with red hair, long and 
tangled, to his shoulders over a tattered cloak that had 
faded from brown to green. As he leaped down, between 
the stones, he would pause for a moment, play a few notes, 
and shuffle his feet with a backward glance at a flock of 
goats that were trailing after. It made me think of the 
Pied Piper of Hamelin enticing the rats. But that's too 
civilized. This chap was primitive. Mad, too — I’ll swear 
he was mad! When he caught sight of me he jumped 
back, as an animal does when surprised, lowered his pipe 
and pointed at me, one bony hand outstretched. The line 
of goats, checked behind him, stared, too, with the same 
air of startled aggression and mistrust. Then the goat- 
herd shouted something in a queer, high voice and began to 
laugh. Still laughing, he swerved to the right, running and 
leaping down the hill, the flock moved by the same panic, 
and vanished. It was like a dream — the swiftness of it, and 
the wild laughter. Presently, far away, I heard the music 
rise again, flute-like and syncopated." Torquil drew a 
deep breath. “The most wonderful thing I’ve ever expe- 
rienced. Why weren’t you with me, Josephine?" 

In his excitement, her name slipped out. She noticed 
it, but made no comment. Carried away by his adventure 
he went on eagerly: 

“We must go there to-morrow — the same hour — on the 
chance of seeing him again. He probably takes the goats 
down to water them in the stream below. You’ll come, 
won’t you? You mustn’t miss it. I’ve been thinking it 
out on my way home. The car could take you part of the 
way" — he was frowning, recalling his direction — “but it 
means a pretty steep climb — rough going over the hills. If 
it comes to that, I could carry you." He stopped abruptly, 
aware of Josephine’s changed expression, but his blood was 
stirred. “Why not ?" he demanded hotly. 

“Don’t be absurd, Torquil." 

Her quiet voice angered him. He stood up, his face 
working, clenched his hands and turned away. 


114 


TORQUIL’S SUCCESS 

“You’ve spoilt it all,” he said hoarsely. 

The rain dashed against the windows and the note of the 
sea filled the silence. Josephine, utterly at a loss how to 
act, watched a palm, caught by the wind, invert its shape, 
its leaves pointed in the air, like the ribs of an umbrella 
that has turned inside out. She felt strangely powerless. 
The crisis was so unexpected. Then she heard the door 
close and realized she was alone. 

She drew a deep breath of relief. 

What did it mean? Could Torquil She thrust the 

thought away from her. It was not only his mad suggestion 
but the look on his face as he said it. For his eyes had 
given his secret away. 

Josephine tried to think clearly. Kate had more than 
once teased her about the “boy’s infatuation,” but Josephine 
was the last woman to take such chaff seriously. It was a 
part of the lazy days and Kate’s general indiscretion when 
her tongue wagged unchecked. Besides, it was Kate who 
had flirted with Torquil. Between him and herself there 
had never been anything but friendship. She did not wish 
it; she shrank from the notion. Even now she might be 
mistaken. Torquil was always led away by anything that 
touched his writing, and to-day his adventure had seemed 
to him the crowning wonder of his visit. Her remark had 
been an anti-climax. She had checked the flood of his 
inspiration. If only he hadn’t looked like that 

She got up and went to the window. The violet hills had 
disappeared, veiled by a grey bank of clouds. No place can 
appear more desolate than the South bereft of its warmth, 
and sunshine. Josephine shivered. How lonely it was! 
This little Villa, swept by the sea and remote from the 
Riviera life, with strange faces on every side, speaking a 
foreign tongue. Only filise to fall back upon and Josephine 
could not speak to her of Torquil. An hour ago she had 
been so happy, secure in his friendship and understanding. 
Now, everything had changed. She would have to talk to 
him at dinner under the eyes of the other servants, and 
Torquil was not a man of the world. Even if she met him 


THE IRON GATE 


115 


half-way, he would sulk — she felt sure of it! But there 
could be no explanation. This she saw clearly. She must 
overlook the incident. After all, it was very slight. A slip 
of the tongue and a touch of temper. She must not exag- 
gerate the importance of his words. Nor of his fugitive 
expression. Here, unconsciously, she winced. It was what 
lay beneath his mood that troubled her; that threatened to 
cast a constraint on their intercourse. If only Kate were 
here now, a third person, to lessen the strain of the daily 
tete-a-tete? Or if David had come for his promised visit. 
Better by far that the men should quarrel than that Torquil 
should fall in love with her! David was such a tower of 
strength. She longed for his presence at this crisis. All day 
he had been in her mind. Perhaps he was writing to her? 
She had often been haunted by thoughts of him, to receive 
a letter next morning. 

The waves dashed against the pier and the stream, aug- 
mented by the rain that poured down from the watershed 
of the hills above, had widened, covering the snowy boul- 
ders, extending its boundaries with the swiftness that turns 
an almost dry river-bed into a swollen torrent in a land 
that revels in sharp contrasts. The air was full of the 
shrill moan and the distant drumming that marks the mis- 
tral, yet the storm came up from the sea and not over the 
frozen Alps. So loud was its note that Josephine started 
when she heard the voice of £lise behind her. 

“Madame ?” 

She turned. The door was open. The Brittany maid 
looked excited. In the dimness beyond, Josephine saw a 
man’s figure, strangely familiar. She gave a gasp of sur- 
prise and relief. 

“David!” She ran forward to meet him. 

“Pm soaking wet, but may I come in?” Heron stood 
there, apologetic. “I’ve driven over from Marseilles and 
the storm caught us half-way. An open car. Talk of the 
South!” He laughed to cover the joy he felt as his hand 
clasped hers. “Well, how are you ?” 

“Bewildered!” There was a catch in her voice. “Pd 


116 


TORQUIL’S SUCCESS 

been thinking of you. It's almost uncanny.” Her face 
grew anxious. “You’re soaking, David ! Where’s your lug- 
gage? You must change.” 

“Isn’t that like you! I believe the first thing that you’ll 
say to St. Peter, when he shows you one of the ‘many 
mansions,’ is, ‘Have the mattresses been aired ?’ ” He looked 
down into her face, his own whimsical and tender. “I 
haven’t brought any luggage. This is a formal call. I’m 
staying at Marseilles.” 

“What nonsense !” 

He went on, teasing her: 

“I’ve a beautiful room in an old house overlooking the 
Vieux Port. So big that I take a run before breakfast in 
and out of the furniture, trying to find a wash-stand that I 
could hang on my watch-chain! They bring up my water 
in a cream- jug. I’m only expected to wash my face. I 
quite welcomed the rain to-day, shook out my feathers in 
the car like a sparrow in a shower. I saw Richard on 
Monday and I’ve brought you endless messages. He prom- 
ised to keep my journey a secret, and I’m not to interfere 
with Torquil and ruin the new book! I’m going to be 
immensely discreet and visit you at intervals.” 

“You’re coming here ” said Josephine firmly. “Kate’s 
gone and I’m all alone.” 

“Torquil, too?” He raised his eyebrows. 

“No, he’s here. But, of course, he’s writing.” 

Something in the way she said it puzzled Heron and he 
glanced at her curiously. 

“I see. A little dull for you. I expect he’s absorbed in 
his work.” 

“Yes. Do stay, David?” She laid a hand on his arm. 
“I call it most unfriendly! Send back a note to explain 
and to-morrow we’ll drive over and bring your luggage 
back with us. I can fix you up meanwhile, as Richard left 
some things behind. I — want you to stay.” Her eyes 
pleaded. 

“You mean that?” He looked thoughtful. He saw that 
something was troubling her. 


THE IRON GATE 


117 

Nor She 


“I do.” She hesitated. “The fact is 

checked herself. 

“Tell me? You’ve fallen out with Torquil?” 

Her grey eyes came back to his face, astonished, and 
candid as a child’s. “Bless her,” he said in his heart. “I 
wonder what that young devil’s been up to?” She was 
speaking. 

“How did you guess? It’s nothing much — a misunder- 
standing — but I was dreading dinner to-night.” She added 
loyally, “It was partly my own fault.” 

“I doubt it.” Heron smiled gravely. “So I’m to play 
the heavy parent and help you two to kiss and be friends?” 
He made a wry face, then laughed. “I’d far sooner smack 
Torquil. I suppose he’s a little too old for that?” 

“He’s growing up.” The humour of the remark struck 
Josephine suddenly and she laughed. “But he’s really 
been good. And he’s much stronger — a different man.” 

“And less saintly in consequence?” Heron’s blue eyes 
twinkled. “All right. I’ll stand by. If you can give me 
a sheet of paper I’ll write that letter for the chauffeur.” 

She left him to his task and sought filise, who was openly 
delighted at the turn of affairs and already preparing Heron’s 
room. As she came back past Torquil’s door, Josephine 
paused. Now was the moment for smoothing the way for 
a cheerful dinner. Heron’s presence had lifted the burden 
of her doubts and perplexities'. 

“You writing?” she called. 

There came no reply. She was moving away when the 
door opened, and Torquil appeared. 

“Is that you, Mrs. Merriman?” His face looked hag- 
gard against the light of a lamp inside, from which the 
shade had been removed. His hand still clutched his 
pen. 

“Not over-working?” she asked gently. 

“No.” He seemed tongue-tied. His dark eyes studied 
her with a brooding melancholy. 

“I just wanted to tell you,” she said, “that Mr. Heron 
has arrived — unexpectedly — from Marseilles. So we shall 


118 TORQUIL’S SUCCESS 

be three to dinner.” She smiled. “You and he can 'talk 
shop.’ ” 

“Heron ! To stay?” His voice was strained. 

She nodded her head. A sudden pity seized her, for 
Torquil looked wretched. 

“It won’t interfere with the book. I shall insist on 
hearing that. I’m getting so interested. You must bring 
in the mad shepherd.” She was determined to show him 
that she had forgotten the incident. She was moving away 
when Torquil checked her, a hand thrust out, then quickly 
withdrawn. 

“Forgive me,” he said under his breath. 

Before she could answer, Heron appeared at the end of 
the corridor and called to her: 

“Mrs. Merriman?” 

Torquil was drawing back. 

“Come and greet him,” said Josephine quickly, thankful 
for the interruption. 

Torquil hesitated, then followed her. He was thinking 
hard. Heron — of all people! There was only one way 
out of it. He was not going to be the butt of his fellow- 
author’s witticisms. Bitterness flooded him, but he man- 
aged to look unconcerned. 

“How are you?” He shook hands, drawn up to his full 
height, sourly pleased to realize that he had the advantage 
of inches. 

Heron responded gravely and repressed a rising sense of 
humour. He was so acutely conscious of Josephine in the 
background urging him to be “good!” 

“I’ve not brought the best of weather,” he suggested to 
fill the pause that followed. 

“No.” Torquil saw his chance. “I suppose I shall find 
it like this when I get back to England next week.” He 
was aware of Josephine’s start. So was Heron and in- 
wardly furious. Damn the chap! With his touchy pride! 
To wound the sweetest woman on earth. His jaw set, 
watching Torquil, who went on steadily: “Still, I’ve had 
a lovely holiday, and it’s time I knuckled down to work. It’s 


THE IRON GATE 


119 


not so easy in lotus-land.” How it hurt, to quote the words 
in Josephine’s generous letter. He was lashing himself pur- 
posely. He called it ‘‘getting back his control.” But he left 
her feelings out of the case. 

“I can understand that,” said Heron. “One wants to 
be out all day long.” He turned to Josephine, anxious to 
shorten the scene. “I’ll just give this to the drivei:.” He 
was off, the note in his hand. 

Josephine looked at Torquil. 

“Did you mean what you said just now?” 

“Yes. You’ll have Mr. Heron, and — and I’ve stayed 
long enough.” He brought it out with an effort. “I’ve 
been thinking of moving on. I can’t tell you what I feel. 
I’m not ungrateful — believe that. I’ve never known such 

kindness. You — you ” He broke down. 

“I’m sorry.” The words rose from her heart. “But 
we won’t talk of it to-night. I think these storms upset 
one’s nerves. You musn’t settle anything yet. It’s too cold 
for you in England.” 

“It’s better for me.” He looked away. “If you think 
that, I could go to Arles. I’d like to see more of Provence. 
Though nothing can come up to Les Lecques.” A sudden 
superstition seized him. He tried to smile but his lips 
quivered. “That’s what the music meant to-day. It’s fatal 
to hear the pipes of Pan.” 


CHAPTER X 


B Y the time Torquil reached Tarascon, he was almost 
resigned to his fate. A hopeless attachment has one 
advantage; the victim’s personal liberty and pros- 
pects remain unimpaired. He can dream despairingly of 
his lady but without a thought, for instance, of the cost of 
furniture. He can also find great pride in his own self- 
control, if it has remained unshaken. Torquil’s imagination 
played round his perilous plight — a married woman, his 
publisher’s wife — and saw, in his prudence, renunciation. 
His retreat was victory, not flight. 

Had Josephine guessed, he wondered? 

In her face, as the train puffed out of the station, he had 
discerned a tender regret, the stars in her eyes veiled. He 
did not realize that she was both sorry and relieved from a 
burden of innocent guilt and the constant fear that Heron 
might wound Torquil’s vanity. 

His last five days at Les Lecques had been ruined by 
the former’s presence. His irritating cheerfulness was an 
offence to a man in love. It left him little chance for brood- 
ing. At Arles, his first halting-place, he gave himself up to 
his despair and was curiously disconcerted to find that the 
mood began to pall. He resolved to drown his sorrows in 
work, forgetting the pair left behind. He hated his fellow- 
author, but the comforting reflection followed that Heron 
could not have her either ! Meanwhile there was Provence, 
with its ancient lore, at his feet — “copy” to burn! Note- 
book in hand, he scoured the surrounding country and, 
although he would not admit it, enjoyed himself exceed- 
ingly. And at Tarascon, he made friends. 

In the clean, quiet little hotel he found two English- 
120 


THE IRON GATE 


121 


women, a mother and daughter, the latter bored to open 
revolt by her surroundings. She promptly made advances 
to Torquil in a company hitherto confined to a pair of 
commis voyageurs , a resigned Belgian family, and a French 
colonel, minus one leg, with a bias against the govern- 
ment. 

She introduced herself to Torquil with a request for a 
match, one night, in the dark little smoking-room where she 
sprawled, defiantly puffing away at a cigarette in a long 
holder, the French colonel glaring at her. Her name was 
Nan Considine, and Tarascon was a poisonous hole, wasn’t 
it? After Cannes! Nothing to see and nothing to buy, 
though that was perhaps lucky, as the shops in the Riviera 
had cleaned her out — dead broke! They were here to 
economize. “Mum” had a mania for God-forsaken little 
places full of pre-historic churches — whilst every one was 
dancing in London ! Tarascon was the limit. Oh, of course, 
it was full of ruins and legends and all that. No use to 
her — she’d prefer a casino! Beaucaire? Yes, she’d been 
there, but if Torquil dared to mention Aucassin and Nico- 
lette it would be the last straw. And he’d better be careful 
before Mum — she thought them an improper couple ! Courts 
of Love, cheeri-oh! It was Andre Boileau’s fault — did 
Torquil know Boileau? A top-hole painter, but a bore. 
He’d lent Mum a book at Cannes, all about the troubadours. 
A heady lot, weren’t they? And Mum always muddled 
things. Wouldn’t have done for her to go to France with 
the W.A.A.C.’s. Yes. Nan had been there, worked through 
the war at a camp near Arras. Ripping! She missed it 
now. “So damned narrow, everybody.” 

All this with disarming candour in a clear, well-bred 
voice. She reminded Torquil of a boy. There was nothing 
feminine about her, except the suppressed wealth of her 
hair, bound tightly round her well-shaped head but allowed 
to escape in a flat curl on either sunburnt, youthful cheek. 
These, and her wrinkleless silk stockings, seemed her only 
vanities. 

A type of the modern, sexless girl, he decided. She 


122 


TORQUIL’S SUCCESS 

might be useful for “copy.” Certainly not dangerous to 
Torquil, proof against temptation, with Josephine enshrined 
in his heart. He was merely interested, a little disgusted, 
and critical. Amazing how unconscious she seemed of the 
scantiness of her skirt! After the cigarette, she powdered 
her nose, still talking, and slipped the puff in its silk sheath 
down the front of her blouse giving it a little pat to flatten 
it on her girlish bosom. Torquil made a note of this. 

He allowed himself to be introduced to her mother early 
next morning in the courtyard of the hotel, inwardly taken 
aback when he found that she possessed a title. 

Lady Mary Considine was a thin, aristocratic lady with a 
long, sad face of the equine type, a long, flat back and 
beautiful hands. Wherever she happened to be, she had 
the appearance of having strayed there by accident, too 
helpless to extricate herself. She belonged to an old and 
impoverished Roman Catholic family, was immensely devout 
and absent-minded. A wag had once said of her that in 
her anxiety to find a short cut to Paradise, she steadily over- 
looked the fact that most of her numerous offspring were 
heading the other way ! Her sallow face was redeemed by a 
pair of beautiful brown eyes that at moments looked sight- 
less, their gaze turned inwards to search her own devout 
soul. Her name was to be found on every charitable pro- 
gramme, and she lived in an atmosphere of committee meet- 
ings and Requiem Masses. 

It occurred to Torquil that she accepted him with the 
absent-minded benevolence she would have extended had 
Nan brought home a stray kitten. But she didn’t attempt 
to inquire his breed. She belonged to a class, so secure in 
its ringed circle, knit together by the bond of an ancient 
faith, that people outside did not count. An Englishman — 
presumably — and an author, with quite passable manners, 
he would amuse Nan, and give Lady Mary the leisure she 
loved, to drift in and out of churches, unaware of their 
architecture but conscious of centuries of worship. These 
were democratic times and Nan had been very trying. A 
good-looking boy. Her beautiful eyes ran over his stalwart 


THE IRON GATE 


123 


frame, and his lean, rather austere face. He reminded her 
pleasantly of a St. Sebastian she had admired in the Louvre. 
She listened with a far-away air whilst Torquil, prompted 
by Nan, explained that he had come from Les Lecques, 
where he had been staying, “With the Merrimans at their 
villa. He’s my publisher.” 

Lady Mary nodded gently. 

“I’ve met him. He’s bringing out a book by a cousin 
of mine. Memoirs, I think? He stayed for a week-end at 
Ardesley Castle when we were there. A pleasant man — 
understands old furniture. . . . No, I don’t know his wife.” 
With this she began to drift away from the space before 
the inn. 

Nan, with a gesture, checked Torquil. 

“That’s all right — she doesn’t want us. Now, what shall 
we do?” 

Torquil suggested a visit to the chateau of King Rene, 
but Nan made a face at him. 

“You come with me! I’ve found a place where we can 
bathe in the river. But don’t tell Mum.” 

It seemed to Torquil that this refrain rang at the end of 
most of her speeches. 

They bathed. They also drank French beer outside a 
sinister-looking cafe where workmen congregated, but con- 
veniently far from their hotel. 

“Fun, isn’t it?” said Nan. “Can you play dominoes?” 

Torquil shook his head. 

“I’ll teach you.” Undeterred by his obvious reluctance, 
she called to the waiter and gave an order in fluent French. 

This worthy unearthed a greasy box overflowing with 
yellowish pieces. She rattled them out on the marble table 
and divided them into two piles. 

“We won’t play for money at first,” she said to Torquil 
cheerfully. “Not till you’ve got the lie of the land. It’s 
jolly here in the sunshine. Fm glad you’ve come. You’ve 
no idea how awful it’s been for me, penned up in that hotel 
with nobody to speak to. And Mum retires to bed at ten. 
To-night we’ll go round the town, after I’ve tucked her up. 


124 


TORQUIL’S SUCCESS 

This game’s called Numero Cinq. I learnt it from a 
wounded pioupiou in a cellar during an air-raid. You were 
in the war?” 

“For three years.” 

“I thought so ! You walk like it.” 

“How?” He was curious. 

She gave him a wicked glance and sprang to her feet. 
One by one the workmen had slouched off; only an old 
man remained, spelling out the news in a soiled copy of 
Le Gaulois. 

“I’ll show you. But remember it’s my next move. I’ve 
just put down double-five.” 

She squared her shoulders and adjusted the belt above 
her supple hips, then swaggered past him down the pave- 
ment. She had caught Torquil’s unconscious habit of 
throwing his head up and back, with the aggressive thrust 
of his chin and the sway of his lean body. Naturally she 
overdid it. He was furious but hid the fact. 

“Bravo!” He smiled at her as she made her way back 
to the table. 

She studied his face for a moment. 

“You’re a sport. I knew it!” 

Her frank approval soothed his wounded vanity, yet his 
resentment lingered. He would pay her back some day. 

Luckily, he won the game. She accepted defeat cheer- 
fully and glanced at the clock inside the cafe. 

“Nearly lunch-time! We must scoot. Don’t give the 
waiter more than tuppence. It’ll spoil him and we’ll come 
here again.” 

Torquil approved this. He was very careful with his 
money. A sudden picture flashed across him of a day 
spent in Marseilles, with Josephine — at her expense. For 
a moment, he felt uneasy. Then he remembered that it 
was his publisher who had really paid. “And he gets 
plenty out of his authors,” Torquil privately decided. 

He settled up for the two bocks and followed Nan, his 
mind elsewhere. He could see himself again at the well- 
appointed restaurant, tasting his first bouillabaisse 4 whilst 


THE IRON GATE 


125 


Josephine watched him, amused at his distrust of the soaked 
bread floating in its saffron broth. Beyond, in the grilling 
Cannebiere, the swarthy, full-blooded men issued, to gather 
in noisy knots, from the vast temple-like Bourse; and the 
pageant of Marseilles, with its Turcos, Spahis and Greek 
Lascars; its voluptuous black-haired women, its flowers, 
dust, sweat and noise, swept onward unceasingly and was 
spiced by the salt tang of the sea. 

“A penny ?” 

Nan was watching his face. 

Torquil started. 

“For my thoughts? I was thinking of Les Lecques.” 

“You looked jolly sentimental. ,, She laughed as he 
gave her a quick glance that had a touch of fear in it. “A 
case of the girl you left behind you?” 

“Good Lord, no!” said Torquil. It seemed to him a 
profanation that she should speak of Josephine. 

They made their way through crooked bye-ways into an 
open place where an old church frowned down on them. 

“There’s Mum!” Nan twisted round. “You go on — 
we’ll meet at lunch. No good tellin’ her we’ve been together 
all the morning. Stick to your story — I’ll stick to mine — if 
she questions us. So long !” She vanished into a stationer’s 
shop. 

Torquil strode on, disgusted. He resented being made 
an accomplice in Nan’s attempts to deceive her parent. 
There was something about Lady Mary that roused a feel- 
ing of reluctant admiration. Aloof she might be, but it 
was no pose, any more than the abstraction of an author 
wrapped up in his work. Meet Nan at lunch? Torquil 
frowned, resenting the monopoly that threatened to inter- 
fere with his freedom. An engraving in a shop window of 
the castle at Beaucaire caught his eye and decided him. 
He branched off towards the station. 

All that golden afternoon he lay under the castle walls, 
eyes half-closed, wrapped in dreams. Below him, the blue 
Rhone swirled past with its eddies and powerful currents. 
There was purpose in the force of the water that had left 


126 


TORQUIL’S SUCCESS 

its impress on the land and, care-free, sought the open sea. 
Nothing could divert its course. Man might bridge it; 
the mighty river laughed at the buttressed stone. 

Torquil, hypnotized by its movement, compared it to 
himself. His resolution was hardening. Upon the flood 
of his ambitions, Josephine was like a branch that had 
snapped from a flowering almond-tree to lie for a moment 
on the surface, delicate and alive with Spring, till the ruth- 
less stream swept it aside. Nothing should obscure his 
vision or check the purpose of his life. He registered his 
vows anew. 

Appeased, he let his mind slip back to the romance of 
Beaucaire, its ballade of love and chivalry. He was haunted 
by the walls above him. 

The sun, in a great, gold ball slid slowly to the distant 
ridge of the Alpines, and the woods darkened. 

There Nicolette was building her bower of leaves en- 
twined with snowy blossoms, the “brown bird” singing over- 
head, whilst the shepherd, dazed by the vision — no longer 
shaken by mad laughter like the ragged figures above St. 
Cyr — sped forth with her summons. She would be listen- 
ing, her eyes wistful, for Aucassin as twilight deepened. 
There would be stars in her eyes. . . . Torquil sighed and 
stirred on the bank. 

Presently, bent low on his charger, Count Garin's son 
would come riding, thorns and briars whipping him, till 
forty wounds dripped blood, mourning for his douce tnie. 
And his face was the face of Torquil. . . . 

Dreams! But dreams were not forbidden. They were 
the warp and woof of stories, Love the needle that plied 
between them, embroidering the tapestry. 

He stayed there until darkness fell, then said farewell to 
the gaunt old tower and the broken wall that had withstood 
a thirteenth-century assault when Simon de Montfort held 
the Castle against the hosts of his enemy, Raymond VII of 
Toulouse. 

As he wandered down the hill, pondering on wars old 


THE IRON GATE 


127 


and new, Torquil remembered that poison gas was no new 
invention. The guide-book which he carried quoted that 
in this siege “they of the Capitol . . . sew together in a 
cloth, fire and sulphur and tow ; and when the fire has 
taken, and the sulphur melts, the flames and the stench so 
choke the foe that not one of them can longer remain there.” 
But the end is defeat, after a sortie, and Simon de Montfort 
“disarms himself under an olive tree and his damsels and 
his squires take away his armour.” 

“Damsels?” Torquil smiled, his mind reverting to Nan. 
She would have made a good page, unfastening his buckler, 
bathing his forehead, and whilst the stricken man recovered 
— he chuckled — she would have used his shield as a mirror, 
to powder her freckled nose! 

These were the girls men married! Thank God he was 
free, safe-guarded from fleshly assaults. For Josephine 
would protect him; the memory of what might have been. 

Still, Nan could have her uses. Not only as a new type 
but to introduce his work, in her wide and influential 
circle. She had promised as much that morning. 

“Let me know when your book comes out and I’ll make 
people buy it!” 

He was not going to lose any chance Fortune might 
throw in his way. He would be her playmate for a week. 
He wondered if she had noticed his absence. Unused to 
her sex, he did not guess that it had been a clever move on 
his part to upset her calculations. Nan missed him, was 
aggrieved, and inwardly approved his conduct. He was 
not altogether docile. 

At dinner she welcomed him demurely under her mother's 
austere eyes, whispered a word to the latter at the close of 
the meal and beckoned Torquil to their table. 

“Come and have coffee with us?” 

It was a public recognition and Torquil’s spirits rose. 
He was perfectly aware that the mother had little part in 
it, but this did not trouble him. 

Lady Mary, her hand forced, smiled occasionally at him 


128 


TORQUIL’S SUCCESS 

and acquiesced in all he said; but again he had the sensa- 
tion of being miles away from her, out of the focus of her 
eyes whilst she withdrew mentally. Once the girl tried to 
recover her parent's wandering attention. 

“I heard from Fiammetta this morning. She’s off to 
Cologne to be near Jinks — wangled it through General 
Talbot. And, oh, I forgot to tell you ! Audrey’s engaged 
to the Puffin!” 

Lady Mary came down from the clouds. 

“To whom?” 

“The Puffin.” Nan laughed. “You know — Sir Thomas 
Letts. I expect he said, ‘Let’s do it!’ Fiammetta christ- 
ened him ‘the Puffin.’ ” She turned to Torquil, her eyes 
dancing. “He made a fortune in guava — no, guano, isn’t 
it? And he’s exactly like the bird. Perches, in a rounded 
waistcoat, with his feet turned out.” 

All that Lady Mary said was: 

“Letts? I don’t remember him.” That seemed to dis- 
pose of the merchant. She rose, smiled vaguely at Torquil 
and drifted away, gently unconscious of the interest she 
evoked among the Belgian family, who had learnt that she 
was an earl’s daughter. 

Nan waited until the head waiter had bowed her parent 
from the room, then she ordered a liqueur, and lit one of 
Torquil’s cigarettes. 

“Can you play billiards?” she asked him. “It’s a rotten 
table — French, of course, with no pockets — but I vote we 
commandeer it. It’s in a room at the back of the house. 
Mum won’t hear the balls.” 

“I’m no good at it,” said Torquil. 

“That’s all right — I’ll teach you. As soon as I know 
Mum’s upstairs, I’ll play a waltz on that cracked piano in 
the salon — to mark my whereabouts ! The Belgian girls 
will take it over. They always resent my attempts. As a 
matter of fact they play damn well! Then I’ll escape and 
meet you.” She emptied her glass and stood up. “Keep 
the commercial travellers at bay. They’ll sneak the table 


THE IRON GATE 


129 


unless you watch. Tip the marker and say you've engaged 
it. Oh, and just settle up for this.” She touched the rim 
of the glass. “I left my bag upstairs. We'll square ac- 
counts later on.” She was off, with a gay nod. 

Torquil, deeply mistrustful, paid. 









\ 















PART II 


THE FLAME 





CHAPTER XI 


L ONDON — awakening from the fogs, with a start, to 
realize the Spring; with lilacs struggling into bloom 
in the sooty square gardens and an epidemic of 
house-painting and roads torn up by the roots. 

Torquil, on his return, had found a bed-sitting-room in 
Chelsea. His windows — it boasted two, looked down from 
the second floor on to the lawns of a tennis-club that filled 
the long railed strip between the old-fashioned houses, and 
was bordered on the north by the Consumption Hospital. 
His side of the square was a cul-de-sac where the traffic was 
stopped in a casual fashion by a bar placed across the road. 
Beyond this was a Polytechnic and a Free Library. 

It seemed an ideal retreat to the author, airy and full of 
light, and save for the distant hum of traffic in Fulham 
Road, curiously silent; so still at times that he could hear 
a steam crane intermittently at work on the river bank, 
with its whining note that rose and swelled, sank and died 
away again. Writing at his open window, with the green 
turf of the garden below and the wide bowl of the sky 
before him untrammeled by the low buildings, he would 
listen to the slurred vibration and imagine himself in the 
country, where golden corn was being thrashed. 

For the first time since he came to London he had found 
a pleasant landlady and a scrupulously clean house. There 
was only one other lodger, whom he carefully avoided, an 
Indian medical student who had taken the room under his, 
was quiet — almost too quiet — and painfully anxious to be 
friendly. With his noiseless step, Mr. Narandur would 
materialize on the staircase when Torquil made a bolt 
from the bath-room and murmur apologetically that he was 

133 


134 


TORQUIL’S SUCCESS 

“onlee waiting to gett” warm water, with a swift comment 
on the weather to encourage conversation. 

“Such a nice young gentleman,” the landlady told Tor- 
quil, “gave no trouble, so anxious to help.” 

Too anxious, her listener decided. Torquil kept clear of 
Narandur, mindful of a dusky contingent at Cambridge 
whom Lyddon was wont to refer to contemptuously as 
“Those niggers at Jesus.” Lyddon, the man he had loved, 
now Lord Talgarth, who had extended the palm of friend- 
ship to Torquil and, then, had delicately withdrawn it. 
Even a quarrel would have been better than the courteous 
nod and studied evasion replacing their long, fervid talks 
when they altered the world to meet their ideals. The 
wound still rankled in Torquil’s soul. He had “no use for 
society.” But the thought followed that, in turn, he might 
spoil the Philistines, turn the class he despised into a lever 
for his success. 

Nan had put this into his head. Anything could be 
“wangled” now, provided you pulled the right strings. 
She professed an interest in literature so long as it wasn’t 
“soppy.” Her arguments left Torquil with the net im- 
pression that even “style” would be forgiven if the story 
proved “a bit thick.” She had been intensely curious to 
probe beneath his pseudonym. It would be a score, she 
decided, to know Torquil’s real name, and to withhold it 
from every one — this mysterious and handsome young 
author. In vain she laid traps for him, with artless ques- 
tions regarding his “county,” his acquaintances and manner 
of life. Torquil was more than her match. But it added a 
zest to their sudden friendship in sleepy Tarascon, and kept 
it alive when they parted. Nan, who had frankly used 
Torquil as a refuge from her boredom, but for this and one 
other fact would probably have allowed him to slip from 
her memory on her return. The mystery tantalized her. 
Who was he? Where did he come from? 

She found, too, a singular dearth of unemployed young 
men in town. Gone were the days of soldiers on leave or 
recovering from minor wounds, anxious for “a good time.” 


THE FLAME 


135 


Every one was getting to work. In the evenings it was 
easier, but for afternoon purposes it was extremely difficult 
to whip up a cavalier who was neither grey-haired nor a 
cripple. She sat down and wrote to Torquil, care of his 
publisher. Where was he? What was he doing? They 
were “always at home on Sundays.” 

Torquil, absorbed in his book, left the letter unanswered, 
then decided one sunny Sabbath to risk this new social 
departure. He was rather scared by Lady Mary. Ner- 
vously he rang the bell of the gloomy house in Chesham 
Street — to learn that the family was “out!” 

He returned, furious, to his rooms. It had cost him a 
new tie. Just like Society! Took a fellow up and dropped 
him. “Out”? They had probably watched his retreat, 
and he hadn’t even a card to leave. A pseudonym had its 
disadvantages. He stamped up the stairs to his room and 
tore off the offending tie. 

But next day he heard from Nan. “Sorry,” they’d 
“gone to Ranelagh” and would Torquil come to lunch 
“on Thursday at two o’clock?” The hour was erased and 
over it “one, sharp,” scrawled hurriedly. 

He accepted the olive branch. He told himself that he 
did so on account of his work, but deep down in his heart 
he exulted, his personal vanity soothed. Not good enough 
for Lyddon, yet the Considines entertained him! Here 
was a greater triumph than his visit to Les Lecques. Jose- 
phine had admitted him to her friendship, but there was 
Merriman, the astute publisher, hovering in the back- 
ground. Besides, the owners of Westwick Place, important 
in literary circles, were not on the same social plane as 
Lady Mary, Torquil decided. He even insisted on this, 
with a semi-conscious grudge against a publisher who re- 
fused to accept an author on his own valuation but judged 
him by results, and whose undoubted kindness held the 
shadow of patronage. 

This was when he classed them together. Taken indi- 
vidually, Josephine stood apart. There was no one to equal 
her, the lady of his dreams and despair. She was con- 


136 


TORQUIL’S SUCCESS 

tinually in his mind. Yet, somehow, it was easier to love 
her at a distance. He found a poignant consolation in the 
book he was steadily building round her. Out of the pages, 
her radiant eyes met his, unashamed before the eloquence 
of her lover. He tasted spurious joys of possession, exempt 
from the morbid fear that the thought of passion roused in 
him. Although, at times, he longed for her presence, he 
dreaded a subtle disillusion. She was so perfect in his 
book, re-created by his fancy, so proud of Torquil, so 
utterly his. But in the flesh she was Merriman’s wife. 
There were moments when he would tell himself that Les 
Lecques had been a golden dream, leaving behind it trailing 
clouds of beauty and experience, yet evanescent as its sun- 
sets. Work was the only reality. And Success — he drew a 
deep breath and heard in the silence the purring note of the 
steam crane on the river, swinging its burden above the 
bank, the evidence of man’s brain saving man inhuman 
labour. In a flash he saw before him the broken backs of 
the slaves who had built the Pyramids, dying under the 
scourge of the whip. If God were responsible for Creation, 
He had left it to Man to evolve mercy. Through the initial 
revolution — when the creature disobeyed his Maker — brains 
had superseded blind faith. Man was now the creator. It 
was to Man that Torquil turned. 

And to Woman? He smiled as he read again Nan’s 
hurried invitation. Where and what was Ranelagh? The 
name seemed vaguely familiar. As he went downstairs to 
post his reply in the letter-box at the corner, a dark form 
slipped from a doorway. 

“Good-a morning,” said Narandur. 

Unpleasant, the flash of those white teeth in the dusky, 
pitted face! Yet Torquil hesitated. One of the Indian 
student’s gifts was topographical accuracy. He knew Lon- 
don as few Cockneys know the city of which they boast. 
Torquil risked an inquiry regarding Ranelagh. Narandur 
was enchanted. He overflowed with information, an au- 
thority on polo, one of the “sports of my coun-tree.” A 


THE FLAME 137 

first-class club — most select — and so forth. Torquil listened, 
then cut him short: 

“Thanks. By a Barnes Common bus, over Putney 
Bridge. That’s all I wanted.” He escaped from the whin- 
ing voice, the sweet, sickly odour of cloves and almond oil 
that hung in the narrow passage. 

“And uses the same bath-room,” he thought with a 
shiver, as he reached the pavement. If only he had a place 
of his own where he could reign, supreme master. Sud- 
denly before his eyes there rose the picture of a house, 
peering across Park Lane; a half-forgotten memory, the 
Mecca of his early dreams. The little house; a great au- 
thor. . . . 

It would come. He filled his lungs with the air crisp 
and alive with dancing motes, golden in the spring sun- 
shine. That morning the first copy of his new book had 
reached him. An ecstatic moment as he dipped into fav- 
ourite passages and admired his name on the cover. “Tor- 
quil” — in gilt — how well it looked! Another step on the 
high ladder reaching up to the stars. He must give one 
to Nan and sign it. She would show it to her friends. He 
would take it with him on Thursday. 

He did. On the fly-leaf was written: 

“From Torquil — remembering Tarascon.” 

The inscription pleased him with its blend of reserve, 
suggestion and euphony. A mere touch of alliteration 
could be tolerated, he decided. As a habit it was detestable. 
But all this would be lost on Nan. Josephine would have 
understood. 

The book under his left arm, he followed the butler up 
the stairs of the gloomy Chesham Street house and was 
shown into a double drawing-room with windows at either 
end. 

His first impression was of chairs. They sprouted like 
mushrooms from a carpet not over-clean and, in places, 
threadbare; chairs of every shape and description muffled 
in faded cretonne (save a spindle-legged contingent) breath- 


138 


TORQUIL’S SUCCESS 

ing of heavy forms, entrenched at committee meetings. 
Avoiding this sheep-pen, a pair of youths stood talking in 
the back room by the tightly-closed window. They glanced 
up as Torquil entered and went on with their conversation. 
At an escritoire in the opposite corner a girl was writing 
feverishly, her veil thrown back from her hat, a fur slipping 
from her shoulders. She darted a quick look at the guest, 
picked up an envelope, scrawled an address across it and 
dropping the letter on the floor, immediately began another. 

Torquil, painfully self-conscious, decided to efface him- 
self on the sofa. As he sat down, the worn springs pro- 
tested loudly,, and added to his discomfiture. He felt 
ruffled by his reception, and confused by his surroundings, 
so different from his expectations. 

This , Lady Mary’s house? So shabby, with its dirty 
windows under the worn brocade hangings suggesting a 
home for moth and dust. The house of an earl’s daughter 
— within a stone’s throw of Belgrave Square ! Half- 
guiltily he looked about him and his troubled eyes found 
peace in a painting over the mantelpiece. A portrait, with 
the shimmering satin beloved of the old masters: a face 
wrapped in silent ecstasy of pride and knowledge of its 
power, the liquid eyes bent on Torquil, demanding homage, 
a tapering hand reaching up to the pearls that glided over 
the sloping shoulders. 

It stirred his imagination. For the eyes were those of 
Lady Mary, mystic, aloof, yet passionate. In place of the 
latter’s fanaticism was a love for the pleasures of this 
world, a twist of the same temperament that rushed wilfully 
to extremes. Torquil, engrossed in the mellowed oils, 
caught a phrase of the conversation in the window beyond 
and smiled to himself. 

“All right. But don’t tell Mum!” 

The door opened and in burst Nan, dressed in some 
flimsy blue material, her neat head wedged into a hat that 
acted as an extinguisher. 

“Hullo, Torquil! Come on — we’ve only just time to 
get lunch.” She caught at his hand and dragged him with 


THE FLAME 


139 


her. “Mum’s out — ‘Infant Welfare.* She won’t be back 
until two, so we’re having a snack early — just you and me.” 
She turned her head on the stairs as one of the youths, who 
had followed them, called down over the banisters : 

“I say, Nan, have you any change?” 

“Not I!” said Miss Considine. “You two met? This 
is Billy, my youngest brother — Torquil, the author.” 

“How’re you?” said Billy kindly. “Look here, Nan, 
haven’t you even half a crown? I’m calling for Tiny. I 
meant to cash a cheque at the club but I forgot. You really 
must lend me something?” 

But Nan, with a shake of her head, went on. 

“Damn!” said Billy and withdrew. 

“An extraordinary family,” thought Torquil. 

Miss Considine’s next remark filled him with uneasiness. 
“Glad you didn’t rise to it! Billy’s hopeless over money.” 

“I d-didn’t like to,” stammered Torquil. The idea was 
entirely foreign to him. He thrust out his book to her as 
they sat down at the long table. “I’ve brought you this — 
if you care to read it?” 

“Rather!” She took it eagerly and opened it. “Signed, 
too! You are a lamb.” 

He was saved. His spirits revived as he helped himself 
to some curdled sauce presented by the solemn butler. It 
was symptomatic of the lunch. Nan excused it airily: 

“A rotten cook — goes to-morrow. Third we’ve had since 
our return. Never mind. Cheeri-oh, Torquil! We’ll get 
some fizz at the wedding.” 

“The wedding?” He looked up, surprised. 

“Yes, that’s why I’m rushing you. I must see Audrey 
married. To the Puffin, y’know. I’m hoping he’ll wear a 
white waistcoat. That would make him the perfect bird.” 
She glanced at the clock. “Brompton Oratory — at two. 
We’ll do it — in a taxi. Now, tell me all your news ?” 

He accepted the plan helplessly, but foreseeing that he 
would pay for the taxi! The modern maiden might dis- 
pense with chivalry, but she took it out in hard cash, was 
his cynical conclusion. 


140 


TORQUIL’S SUCCESS 

Nan, blissfully unaware of his secret rebellion, prattled 
on up to the very moment when they alighted at the door 
of the great domed church. 

It was the first time that Torquil had been in a place of 
worship since the days of “chapel” at Cambridge, and it 
seemed to him like some grim jest. To be there, utterly 
unbelieving, packed close in a crowd of devout Catholics of 
whose status he had no doubt — a member of that “society” 
he so bitterly anathematized! 

It would make an excellent scene in a book. The thought 
acted as a tonic. Yet he could not shake of! a queer op- 
pression. Those rows of rustling well-dressed people, smil- 
ing and nodding at one another, yet pausing gravely to 
bend the knee before they entered the packed pews. Above 
all the glitter and pretence of this marriage for money, 
made on earth, the fine old church, with its silvery marble, 
extended a hand in benediction. Life passed, but religion 
remained: God on His throne, pitiful, just, aware of the 
weakness of his creatures. This was the silent sermon 
preached by the exquisite light that seemed to hang like a 
mystic cloud in the dome. 

Torquil resisted the impression with all his strength, his 
jaw set, reason at war with superstition. He shook himself 
free from a feeling of awe and reluctant reverence. All this 
might be valuable. He became once more the recorder, and 
his old cynicism returned when a portly person like a beadle 
proceeded to spread out the train of the kneeling bride for 
the benefit of the congregation counting the loops of costly 
lace. He was like a ghost from Dickens, as he ambled over 
the red carpet and withdrew after a furtive touch to 
straighten one of the velvet chairs in the crescent sacred to 
the bridesmaids, the priest intoning solemnly. What a 
comedy, thought Torquil! 

At last it was over. The bride had passed like an arum 
lily, sheathed, aloof, the Puffin grotesque and beaming be- 
side her, his flat feet in their patent boots turned out as 
Nan had prophesied. It was a wickedly true description. 


THE FLAME 141 

Bird-like, he hopped into the carriage holding the big white 
bouquet 

Torquil and his companion were swept through the porch 
in the crush. 

“This way!” Nan seized his arm. “Here’s a taxil” 
They got in. “Hyde Park Hotel,” she cried to the driver. 
Pulling out her powder-puff she gazed earnestly in the glass 
facing them and smothered her nose. “Looked nice, didn’t 
she? But Pm simply dying for a drink. That’s why I 
didn’t waste time talkin’. We’ll get it now in peace before 
all the crowd turns up. There go the pages! Aren’t they 
lambs r 

The taxi stopped. Torquil paid. “And that ends it,” 
he decided. He followed Nan up the wide staircase, inter- 
ested yet repelled. The bride’s still face haunted him. 
He saw her the sport of the Fates, her youth bartered for 
man’s passion. In Nan’s wake he shook hands with her, 
then with the Puffin, and noted his loose lips, the moisture 
on his narrow forehead. The bride’s fingers were deadly 
cold. She smiled faintly as Nan chaffed her. Fluttering 
about her, like spring leaves under the great white bell of 
flowers, were the bridesmaids in their pale green dresses, 
wreathed in myrtle, with golden veils, virginal and provoca- 
tive. Torquil looked at them wonderingly. Were they 
curious over the sacrifice, these laughter-loving friends of 
hers? Love profaned for the lust of gold. 

He had found Nan her champagne, drunk a glass him- 
self and moved away from the buffet when a sudden flood of 
guests surged up and divided them. He escaped to a quiet 
corner beyond the band and far from the bride. Nan, 
surrounded by friends, could take care of herself and he felt 
the relief of being alone with his own thoughts. Above the 
rustle and the chatter, the music broke forth again into the 
latest two-step. A man beside him began to shuffle his 
feet, caught by the pattering tune. Well-groomed, with 
merry eyes and full of youthful vitality, his appearance 
appealed to Torquil. He watched him take a couple of 


142 


TORQUIL’S SUCCESS 

steps forward surreptitiously, then back again to the wall. 
He was obviously aching to dance. Suddenly his face lit 
up ; he held out his hands and cried : 

‘‘Come on ! I’ll dare you to take a turn !” 

“Why not?” A clear, laughing voice sounded behind 
Torquil. 

He turned. In a moment he recognized her. The beau- 
tiful, arrogant little face under its vivid copper hair, the 
slender body, sheathed in dove-grey, the fine feet in their 
suede slippers and — yes! there were the scarlet heels. The 
“lady of the gondola,” linked to him indissolubly by the 
night that had witnessed his first success, the letter hinting 
at terms for his book. 

He could not remove his eyes from her. He stared un- 
ashamedly as, already held by her partner, she glanced back 
over her shoulder. 

“Is there room?” Her poised brows drew together. 
For a stout, elderly gentleman had drifted into the quiet 
corner and was standing solidly in the centre, his back 
turned to the couple. Her eyes caught Torquil’s intent 
gaze. For a moment she looked puzzled. Did she, too, 
remember, he wondered? Then, with a mischievous smile, 
her lips parted; she whispered, “Move him.” 

Torquil was stirred absurdly by a sense of her confidence 
in himself. All his shyness fell away. Authoritative but 
courteous, he tapped the elderly gentleman on the arm. 

“Please? A little further back,” he murmured and 
pointed to the dancers. 

It had the desired effect. Now the young couple could 
move at ease. Torquil watched their fantastic steps in a 
dream, all his senses held by the supple swaying figure, the 
glimpse he could catch of a petal-like cheek under the black 
sweep of her hat. He stood there, like a man possessed, 
flattened against the wall, the blood throbbing in his temples. 
Even then, subconsciously, he realized that the dance was 
a serious affair to them both, a trial of skill, almost a rite. 
Not a word passed between them. The joyous young man 
looked grave; the girl’s white lids were lowered over her 


THE FLAME 143 

aquamarine eyes, her red lips pressed together. It amazed 
and enchanted Torquil. 

He became aware suddenly that the bandsmen were 
equally involved, their eyes following the couple, the beat 
of the music accentuated, and that a crowd of wedding 
guests had gathered, amused, to watch this departure, the 
dancers conscious of the fact. Torquil recognized this by 
the glances the young man cast right and left, humorous yet 
deprecating. But the girl was utterly unmoved. Her sub- 
lime assurance awoke in Torquil an answering chord. 
Here was success. Individual, she towered above all those 
lightly critical women, utterly careless of their opinion. 

Suddenly the music stopped and, at this signal, the spell 
was snapped. The amused spectators surged forward and 
the girl was surrounded by laughing friends. Torquil heard 
a man say, “The best dancer in London,” to a woman eager 
for information. “Professional? Good Lord, no!” Then 
Nan’s mischievous, brown face from under the extinguisher 
hat bobbed up, searching his own. 

“I lost you! I might have guessed you’d be watching 
Fiammetta. Isn’t she wonderful?” 

“ ‘Fiammetta’?” It seemed strangely familiar, to bring 
an echo from the past. “What is her other name?” 

“Lyddon.” 

She saw him recoil. His startled face grew dark with 
anger. She stared, amazed at the transformation, as he 
asked, with an effort: 

“Any relation to Lord Talgarth?” 

“His sister, of course. Here she comes! I’ll introduce 
you.” 

“No!” said Torquil. 

He had not troubled to lower his voice. It rang out 
roughly. He did not care. His disillusion was complete. 
Miserable yet impenitent, he was aware of the amazement 
on the beautiful, arrogant, little face and of Nan, speechless, 
with pursed lips. Then the crisis was on him. 

“I’ve been looking for you.” Fiammetta laid her hand on 
Nan’s arm. “And here you are — with ?” Her eyes 


144 


TORQUIL’S SUCCESS 

were turned full on Torquil. A faint smile curved her 
beautiful mouth, of mischief and disdain combined. Nan 
murmured something quickly. Fiammetta’s smile widened. 
“I must thank you” — she addressed Torquil — “for remov- 
ing Lord Routh just now. I don’t think I caught your 
name ?” 

“Torquil.” It sounded like a challenge. 

Into the aquamarine eyes came a sudden flash of interest. 
“The author of An Outsider ? I’ve read it. A clever 
book.” She turned to Nan. “Bring him to see me,” and 
passed on, assured, surrounded, with a last glint of scarlet 
heels. 

Torquil’s martyrdom began. 


CHAPTER XII 


M ERCIFULLY for Torquil, Nan belonged to a class 
that expects eccentricity in its authors and its 
artists. She put down his strange behaviour to this, 
or to a sudden attack of shyness. What puzzled her was 
Fiammetta’s graciousness. 

'‘You’re in luck,” she told Torquil. “She’s rather par- 
ticular. I mean,” she added hastily, “she doesn’t invite 
every one. But she likes people who do things. She’s so 
damned clever herself ! Writes the music for her dances — 
invents them, too, designs the frocks and even paints the 
scenery — rides, fences, everything ! There’s no one to touch 

her. And generous I’ve known her give away a 

brand-new frock, never worn, to a girl who was hard up. 
Of course she’s jolly rich, but that doesn’t always count — 
rather the other way about. Anyhow she’s a ripper ! 
Pierrot calls her a ‘cult’ — but that’s a bit over my head!” 
She gave her frank, infectious laugh. “You’ll love her 
house — it’s just like her. Jinks — that’s Lord Talgarth — 
gives her entire control. She’s been mistress there since 
their parents’ death, but when Jinks went to the Front he 
insisted on a chaperon. An old scream — you should just 
see her! Fiammetta calls her ‘my Sacrifice’ — to conven- 
tion of course — a Miss Bellace, some kind of a poor relation. 
Trots after like a dog and worships Fiammetta, who turns 
over to her all the men she doesn’t want. As Fiammetta 
says, she’s invaluable in love-affairs, offers the victims a 
‘paralytic consolation.’ Or if they refuse to be soothed she 
threatens to write to Jinks who’s with the Army of Occupa- 
tion. Well, when shall we go there?” 

Torquil, in the dim entrance lounge at the foot of the 
145 


146 


TORQUIL’S SUCCESS 

staircase, avoided Nan’s bright eyes. His one desire was 
to escape and analyse his sensations. But he dared not 
refuse point-blank and add to her curiosity. Therefore he 
temporized : 

“I’m afraid I can’t say at present. I’m so tremendously 
busy writing. I oughtn’t to have come out to-day, but I 
couldn’t resist the temptation.” He hoped that his smile 
looked natural. 

“Well, I’ll drop you a line,” Nan suggested. “I’m rather 
full up myself. Taking part in a Masque for one of Mum’s 
charities. Fiammetta’s written the music — she practically 
got it up — and we’re hard at it with rehearsals. Sapristi, 
that’s it!” She stared at Torquil. “You’d do jolly well 
in Stracey’s place — my cousin who’s crocked up his game 
knee. The right height; dark, too! I’ll bet Fiammetta 
spotted it. Can you dance ?” 

“No.” Torquil stiffened. 

“I’ll teach you,” said Nan airily. 

He must act now; he was frightened, seeing the web 
closed round him. 

“I’m afraid, Miss Considine, that you mustn’t count on 
me for any sort of social work. I’ve no time for society. 
People will never realize that because an author works at 
home his hours are as long — and longer — than those of a 
man who goes to his office.” He added a trifle bitterly, 
“Nor that his privacy should be equally respected. I daren’t 
break into my work. Everything must go before it.” 

Nan looked at him wickedly. 

“Even Fiammetta?” 

Torquil nodded, his lips compressed. 

“We’ll see !” She laughed, unbelieving, straightened 
her hat with a glance at the mirror and searched for her 
powder-puff. “You can’t come on somewhere to tea — 
Rumpelmayer’s ?” she suggested. 

“I mustn’t. Shall I get you a taxi?” 

Nan looked rueful. 

“No, I’m walking.” The paymaster had failed her. 

They passed through the revolving doors into the glare 


THE FLAME 147 

of the daylight. Nan blinked. Torquil’s face looked pale 
and strained. She noticed the fact. 

“I believe you work too hard,” she said. “You take a 
day off — drop me a line first — and I’ll ring up Fiammetta 
and find out when she’ll be in. Is that agreed?” She held 
out her hand. 

He murmured a word of thanks and saw her attention 
wander, as the man with the merry eyes emerged from the 
portals behind them. 

“Good-bye!” She was off. 

As he moved away he heard her cheerful : “Hullo, 
Jake!” and the last glimpse he had of her was with one 
foot on the step of a taxi, laughing from under the brim of 
her hat whilst her cavalier directed the driver: “The 
Carlton — and hurry up !” 

Torquil dived into the maze of traffic and headed down 
the Brompton Road. 

Fool, triple fool that he was, to run his head into such 
a noose ! Lyddon’s sister — that little “Fia” who had wanted 
to come up for May-week but whom Lyddon had voted 
“too young.” He was “not going to have her spoilt,” he 
believed in “keeping her a kid.” Torquil remembered now. 
Remembered, too, the light in his friend’s face, testifying 
to his devotion. 

His sister! He might have guessed it. She had his 
clear white skin, and his mobile, arched brows, though 
Lyddon’s hair had been darker, with only a tinge of copper 
in it, and his eyes, unlike hers, were hazel. But she held 
the same fascination for Torquil; beauty and brains and 
an exquisite finish that betrayed itself in movement and 
voice, and that assurance he coveted which was physical as 
well as mental. 

Why should she move him so? Was it the call of the 
blood? Some ignored hereditary factor bequeathed to him 
by the man who had ruined Torquil’s mother. The mystery 
of his birth rose anew to torture him. He was not the 
butcher’s son — he held no doubts on this point — but was 
he, could he be, the Squire’s? Squire Pomfret of Pomfret’s 


148 


TORQUIL’S SUCCESS 

Folly. A bastard! Sam Oliphant, the enemy of his boy- 
hood, had called him this in the open street, and they had 
fought behind the woodstack of the Rose and Crown; a 
double defeat, since the butcher had thrashed Torquil later 
for “breaking the Sabbath Day.” 

And Fiammetta had asked him to call! 

He hated her. Full well he guessed that the carelessly 
flung invitation had been born of perversity. A man who 
refused an introduction? Here was something worth tam- 
ing! She was weary of her many conquests. And yet, 
at the mention of his name, she had seemed more human, 
remembered his book. She was fond of clever people — so 
Nan said — an artist herself. Was he misjudging her? He 
strode on, lost to the world. 

No, she was flesh of Lyddon’s flesh! Go to see her? 
He would be shot before he set foot in her house. He 
could picture it vividly and the well-remembered scene. 
The white stones bathed in moonlight, the black car, the 
strip of carpet and the flash of her scarlet heels. It had 
been his Fate to meet her again. Romance in the heart of 
London, his “lady of the gondola.” But to lose her so 
soon — Lyddon’s sister! Surely the gods were mocking 
him. 

The horn of a motor sounded afar, a flute-like note, 
softened by distance, and Torquil, still moving in a dream, 
thought of the shepherd with his pipe on the stony hills 

above St. Cyr. And of Josephine He paused, aghast 

at the sudden change in himself. Hazy, curiously void of 
youth, her vision rose in a swift contrast to the figure 
swaying in the dance, virginal yet capped by fire. Silver 
and flame. He remembered words he had uttered in the 
Westwick garden : “a path of moonlight” — Josephine. She 
was powerless to hurt him, but Fiammetta could scorch his 
soul. He cursed himself for his weakness. To be tripped 
up at last by desire, a man impervious to passion, vowed to 
work, and the memory of a “hopeless love”! 

Why had he ever sought to emerge from his hermit-like 
security? Vanity of vanities. Desperate, he found an ex- 


THE FLAME 


149 


cuse. It was necessary for an author to see life from all 
sides, to be alive to the trend of the times. Many a man 
had lost hold by writing only of the past and his own narrow 
environment. Merriman had pointed this out and had first 
advised Torquil to “mix in society.” It was Merriman’s 
fault — damn Merriman! 

A sudden vibration beneath his feet and the roar and 
clatter of a train brought Torquil to a standstill. Where 
was he ? He stared down at a low and dirty wall, and found 
himself standing on the bridge that breaks the monotony of 
the endless Cromwell Road with, beneath him, the District 
Railway — a section between the tunnels. A forlorn row of 
cabbage stalks against a strip of sooty soil — the travesty of 
cultivation — broke the surface of the bank. A man, in 
shirt sleeves, his braces hanging, one foot on a spade, was 
staring in the track of the train. Torquil could see his face, 
brutishly vacant, head thrust forward on his muscle-bound 
shoulders. 

It gave him a queer feeling of horror. He turned away, 
retracing his steps. To be doomed all one’s days to manual 
labour until the worn-out body became the only vehicle of 
emotion, the brain blunted by disuse. To eat and drink 
and beget children: the sum of a man’s existence. Those 
old men, too, in the clubs, at the other end of the social 
scale, who for passion substituted greed, sniffing like dogs 
over their food or, churlish, obeying some doctor’s “diet.” 
Made in the likeness of the Creator. What a mockery it 
was! One foot in the grave and nothing to show for the 
spent days, save wasted tissues. 

Thank God he was still young! And free, master of his 
soul. Of his body, too — he swore it. Since love — the 
transparent, wistful affection of the days at Les Lecques — 
had failed him, work should be his salvation. He swung 
down Gloucester Road in huge strides that brought him, 
glowing, across the dividing line to Chelsea. The grocer’s 
wife at the corner of the turning that led to his quiet Square 
smiled and nodded as he passed and he called out affably 
“Good evening For his mood had changed. He felt 


150 


TORQUIL’S SUCCESS 

released from his old haunting fear. No woman should 
interfere with his life. On a sudden thought he wheeled 
round and entered the shop to buy a loaf and a slice of 
cheese — for the little store supplied both — which would 
serve for his supper, with no break in his writing. He 
watched the grocer’s young wife reach up to the shelf, her 
bosom swelling under her blue overall, her fair hair neatly 
coiled showing the fine shape of her head. About her was 
the healthy air of those who work and are satisfied with 
simple pleasures and small profits, unharassed by vast am- 
bitions. She was worth a dozen of the women, restless 
in their finery, socially envious of each other, who had 
joined in the pageant that afternoon. He paid her and 
passed on, the loaf a grotesque parcel. But in Chelsea a 
loaf was a loaf and not an embarrassing possession. He 
broke off a piece of crust, temptingly crisp, as he put it 
down on his littered writing-table. How good it tasted! 
Utterly different from the slab-like sandwiches at the fash- 
ionable wedding. It was fine to be back in this bare room 
with the green lawns under his open windows and to feel 
the driving thrust of his work. 

Slowly the twilight deepened; the steam crane sank to 
rest; the sparrows were silenced too. On the balcony of 
the hospital, white-capped nurses stole forth for a breath of 
the cool evening air before returning to their duty. Night 
settled down on London. Torquil’s pen moved rapidly, 
but once there came a long pause as he stared before him, 
his face perplexed. Was his hero a trifle wasted on the lady 
of his choice; a man so vitally alive, so consciously in- 
dependent? No. The Josephine of his book was alive 
too — and young as Spring! 

Torquil smiled, then shrugged his shoulders. On he went 
with his story of love. Later, as he corrected the chapter, 
he found an unpardonable slip. Her eyes were grey, with 
starry lights, and not the “colour of sea water”! 

• . . . . r 

The days sped by unheeded; Torquil drugged himself 
with work. His book was the only reality, though he was 


THE FLAME 


151 


conscious of green leaves that sprouted with engaging swift- 
ness and of the hawthorn shedding petals when he slipped 
out for his meals. He lived in a dream — satisfied. Then 
the reaction set in. He awoke one morning feeling cramped 
in mind and body; wrote, corrected, re-corrected, and in a 
rage tore up the result. He lunched at a little restaurant in 
the King’s Road, indulged in cofifee to clear his benumbed 
brain, but decided to cut work. Merriman was back from 
Paris. Torquil, restless, set forth to inquire the fate of his 
published book. He had seen a good review that morning; 
not lavish of praise but treating his work with an undertone 
of respect and ending up with a prophecy of fulfilment in a 
later volume. He was beginning to understand the value 
of such criticism. 

He was kept waiting at the office, a fact that increased his 
nervous strain, but at last he was ushered into the presence. 
Merriman greeted him genially and commented upon the 
obvious improvement in his health. They talked in a casual 
fashion for a few minutes, then the publisher asked how 
the new book was going. 

“Fine.” Torquil’s head went up and back, his chin thrust 
forward. “It’s good work.” 

Merriman smiled. He recognized his author’s mood. 

“Yes, you’ll improve as you go on. There’s no royal 
road to writing. Experience is the only teacher, and a 
steady progress is best in the end. Most people have one 
book in them. Sometimes it meets with a great success, to 
be followed by a series of failures. Your third book will be 
a test.” 

“It will stand it,” Torquil asserted. He thrust out his 
long legs and stared aggressively at his boots. “I called in 
to ask for figures of the sales up to date of A Self-made 
Man ” he announced. “I suppose it’s still in the first 
edition ?” 

“It is. The subscriptions were quite good, a distinct 
advance on your last, but it’s too early to judge at present. 
We must wait for the repeat orders. Still, I’m glad you 
called to-day. The American mails are in from my publish- 


152 


TORQUIL’S SUCCESS 

ing house there and there’s some good news for you. As 
you know it’s been out in New York some time, and it 
seems to have caught on — has nearly run out of stock and 
is now going to press again.” 

“Really?” Torquil’s expression had changed. He leaned 
forward eagerly. “I never thought of America. I sup- 
pose that’s pretty useful?” 

“If it continues, it means money. In the States they 
buy books — less an affair of the libraries — and of course 
it’s a vast country. It’s unusual, too, with a new author 
but I daresay the title helps and your democratic outlook.” 
He smiled. “I must congratulate you.” 

“Thank you, sir.” 

For a moment the old and the young eyes met. Merri- 
man’s were a shade wistful. Did Torquil take all praise to 
himself? The book was a quiet triumph of publishing in 
these difficult times, both paper and binding far above the 
average, and Merriman had not stinted influence or adver- 
tisement. Torquil owed his redeemed health to his pub- 
lisher’s generosity and the care lavished on him at Les 
Lecques. Was he too proud to acknowledge the debt? He 
waited. Some cord of telepathy must have vibrated between 
them, for Torquil asked abruptly : 

“How is Mrs. Merriman?” 

“She’s well, and busy, down at Westwick, getting it 
ready for the summer. But she’s coming to town for a 
little, next month.” 

“I must call and thank her for all her kindness at Les 
Lecques.” Torquil’s eyes were averted. 

In Merriman’s ears it sounded formal. 

“Yes. Look us up.” His voice was short. 

The office boy tapped at the door and announced another 
visitor. Torquil rose to his feet. 

“I expect you’re busy,” he suggested. “When shall you 
want my new book?” 

Merriman laughed outright. Torquil had the air of con- 
ferring a benefit. 


THE FLAME 153 

“If you let us have it six months from now that will 
give us ample time.” 

“Six months !” Torquil looked blank. “You mean that? 
Why, I’m two-thirds through it.” 

“You’ll be able to polish it then.” Merriman’s deep-set 
eyes twinkled. “Publishing is not easy now. I’ve books 
held up from last year which must come out before yours. 
But, apart from that, as you go on, one book a year is quite 
sufficient. You mustn’t weary your public — or write your- 
self out before you’re thirty!” He continued more seri- 
ously, “I’m speaking now in your own interest. If you 
want to take your stand as an author to be respected, you 
will follow my advice. I only brought out your present 
book so soon on the heels of the last to familiarize an un- 
known name. Now we must go more slowly. Don’t hurry 
this new novel. Study your work — improve your style. 
Get about, too, and see life. It won’t do you any harm.” 
Another tap came at the door and Merriman shook hands. 

“Good-bye.” Then, to the office boy, “Shew Mr. X 

in.” He mentioned a famous name. 

Only when he had swung himself on to a bus for the 
homeward journey did it occur to Torquil that he had 
come away without any definite figures. He detected in 
this his publisher’s guile. He was both elated and im- 
patient. Splendid, the American news. But one book a 
year ? Ridiculous ! He could turn out two easily. It was 
all very well for Merriman, who had to think of his other 
authors, the dearth of paper and so forth, but Torquil saw 
his progress checked. If the public approved of his work, 
they would be crying out for more. It was an excuse of 
Merriman’s to cover his own lack of hustle. But he wasn’t 
the only publisher! There were younger firms with newer 
methods, glad to get a rising author. 

He didn’t care for Merriman’s manner: that superior, 
amused attitude of an elderly man towards a youth. Genius 
had no age. If Merriman, now, wrote the books . . .? 
Damn it all, he was only a tradesman with a shrewd appre- 


154 


TORQUIL’S SUCCESS 

ciation of values. Of course in a way he’d been kind to 
Torquil, but wasn’t it a sound investment? He would get 
his money back. It must cost something to keep up West- 
wick and the mansion in Bloomsbury. 

Josephine had been more sincere. She liked Torquil for 
himself. She was — what was the word? Motherly. He 
shrank from the thought, so detrimental to romance. Sis- 
terly — that was better, but still too material. He had felt 
curiously relieved to learn that she was at Westwick. He 
pictured her making lavender bags in the tower sacred to 
Sister Ann — with that sublime disregard for the seasons 
of authors whose snowdrops flower in June! But how in- 
distinct she had become. The real Josephine lived in his 
book. She was flesh and blood, the other a spirit. Suddenly 
he recalled a speech he had laughingly made at Les Lecques 
anent Mrs. Rollit’s obsession: “l should rather like a 
spirit wife!” And then the alternative, recommended by 
Merriman, “Get about and see life.” 

Not he! That way danger lay. Nan and her social 
crowd, with its unforeseen temptations. Restless, he got out 
of the bus when it stopped at Hyde Park Comer, and 
wandered up towards the grass, skirting the long rows of 
chairs, deserted, for the day was fresh with a distracting, 
gusty wind, that seemed to blow from every quarter, and 
was charged with fine grit. 

Torquil found himself at last standing on the edge of the 
path opposite Grosvenor Gate, looking across at his dream 
house. 

The sap was rising fast in the trees, the sticky buds of 
the sycamore long since shed to show green tassels, the 
planes in a smother of delicate leaves. The Spring was in 
his own blood too. 

From the windows of the little house a man could watch 
the swift growth: Nature flinging out her banners after 
the long barren months. A pair of children rode past, a 
groom closely in their wake. The breeze tossed the fair 
hair of the little girl in a cloud about her rosy, excited face 
as she tugged at the mouth of the patient pony. Beyond, a 


THE FLAME 


155 


carriage rolled heavily, drawn by a pair of elderly horses, 
the sun glinting on their harness, and a small car, painted 
blue with a girl at the wheel, slipped past and turned with 
a sweeping curve a few yards up the road. There was a 
sudden grind of brakes and it halted, by the curb, under 
Torquil’s absent eyes. A clear, mischievous voice hailed 
him. 

“Thinking out a new book?” 

He looked down. It was Fiammetta! 

She wore a tanned leather coat of a warm copper colour 
that suggested the hue of her hidden hair, under the drawn- 
down toque made of peacock’s feathers — the iridescent breast 
plumage. In her little ears were emerald studs and to-day 
there was no blue in her eyes. They shone like green sea- 
water, under the curling lashes of pale brown, tipped with 
gold, and danced as they witnessed Torquil’s amazement. 

“Did I startle you? Never mind. Get in and come for a 
drive ?” She held back the grey fur rug invitingly. 

He found his voice. 

“Oh — how do you do? I’m afraid ” He sought 

desperately for an excuse but his wits had deserted him. 

“You can’t pretend that you’re busy,” she laughed back. 
“I’ve passed you twice, lost in dreams, on that same patch. 
Are you fond of music?” 

His eyes widened. The question disconcerted him, break- 
ing the sequence of his thoughts. 

“Yes, of course. Why?” he stammered. 

A little thread of silken hair had escaped from beneath 
the mass of shot blue and green feathers. It lay against her 
pale cheek like a coil of the finest copper wire. He could 
not remove his gaze from it. 

She answered him indirectly. 

“That settles the matter. Get in. I promise you, you 
won’t regret it.” 

It seemed to Torquil that his will had passed out of his 
possession. She drew him by invisible cords that only her 
own magic could sever. Before he knew the extent of his 
weakness, he found himself seated by her side, conscious of 


156 


TORQUIL’S SUCCESS 

the throb of the car and the warmth of the rug that im- 
prisoned his knees. Conscious, too, there was no escape — 
that he did not wish to escape! It was enough for him to 
feel the perilous proximity of her youthful body, and to see 
the clean lines of her face against the swiftly moving back- 
ground, the slender hands in their fringed gloves grasping 
the steering-wheel. 

He was caught up, scorched, in the flame. 


CHAPTER XIII 


H OW he loved her for her silence! Another woman 
would have chattered, forcing him to reply, but 
not until they capped the rise of the long Putney 
hill and turned to the right across the Common did her sealed 
lips unclose. She drove with a careless zest, leaning back 
in her seat; trickily, showing off the car as they slipped in 
and out of the traffic, but with no evidence of nerves. She 
was Lyddon all over again, doing amazing stunts, a cigarette 
hanging from his lip, mischief in his sleepy smile; playing 
the fool, yet level-headed. 

Torquil thrust the memory from him. To-day he would 
live in the present. Over a villa wall a torrent of laburnum 
poured and from the ragged undergrowth on the Common 
rose the fragrance of earth yielding up its hoarded moisture 
under the golden rays of the sun. The wind, like a wild 
colt, galloped up, to swerve in their faces and show its heels, 
with a toss of streaming mane. Fiammetta bent her head 
and the feathers on her hat were broken into rippling, iri- 
descent waves. Now he could see the nape of her neck 
like white jade above her collar and the sweep of her bur- 
nished hair. She was wonderful: a creature of gold and 
crystal, set with strange jewels. 

The wind dropped and she relapsed into her lounging 
attitude. 

“Well.” Her eyes darted sideways. “Are you still cross 
at being kidnapped?” 

“If I had been, I shouldn’t have come.” He must hold 
his own at any cost. He was too conscious of his weak- 
ness. 


157 


158 


TORQUIL’S SUCCESS 

She made no comment, but switched on the brake as 
they slid down a long slope, with prim houses standing back, 
each with its carriage gate and travesty of a drive. 

“How would you like to live in a villa called ‘Rose- 
mount’ ?” she suggested. 

“Not overmuch. And you?” He was cautious. 

“It might be amusing — you never know ! Pierrot — that’s 
Pierre de Lusignan, a friend of mine — declares that no 
one really lives in these houses. They have a dug-out at 
the back. The rest is merely decoration — canvas and cam- 
ouflage. I believe he’s right. You never see any one at 
the windows, or going out, or coming in. It’s a magnifi- 
cent deception, like scenery at Earl’s Court. The doors 
and windows aren’t real, just an effect of paint and per- 
spective. Look ! There’s a painted dog, sitting on a painted 
doorstep.” 

Torquil smiled, caught by her fancy. 

“And he’s hunting for a painted flea !” 

“That’s the artist’s realism,” she laughed back, uncon- 
vinced. 

On they went, escaping from London but still conscious 
of pursuit. 

At last Torquil summoned courage to inquire their des- 
tination. 

“So you are curious, after all?” She gave him a mis- 
chievous glance. “What do you say to Land’s End?” 
She saw the light leap up in his eyes and went on rather 
quickly, fearful of his imagination, “We’re only going to 
Hampton Court. To see a dear old friend of mine — the 
direct descendant of Tubal Cain — and to hear him ‘make 
music.’ He’s quite mad. I promised Jinks that I would 
never go there alone. That’s why I picked you up in the 
Park. And, now that I’ve set your mind at rest, you can 
go back to your book — I shan’t interrupt you again — that 
chapter I ruthlessly broke into.” 

“Thanks.” He felt, and looked, offended. She didn’t 
want his company but only to make use of him, an incon- 
spicuous body-guard. That was the way of “society girls” ! 


THE FLAME 159 

They were selfish to the core, blind to all but their own 
amusement. 

Then, softly, she spoke again. 

“I mean it. I’m a worker myself, and I loathe being 
interrupted.” 

So it wasn’t heartless mockery? But what a power she 
held to wound him. By a light word or the curl of a lip. 
He said : 

“I’d much rather talk.” 

She nodded and left the subject to him. 

Silence settled down between them; a ghastly thing like 
a sea fog, clouding his brain. No words would come. Sud- 
denly he became aware of a ripple that passed across her 
shoulders. A little sob of checked mirth broke from her. 
She turned her head, her eyes dancing. For a moment, 
his dignity at stake, he resisted the unspoken jest; then the 
sweet, sound gift of laughter knit them together — a bond 
of youth. 

“Tell me about Nan, playing the tourist at Tarascon? 
It must have been quaint,” she suggested. 

So they had talked of him? His spirits rose, unlocking 
the gates of his eloquence. He found himself carrying her 
to the South on a swirl of vivid, enamoured language. To 
Provence — the land of the Troubadours. How well she 
fitted into the picture! Only once did he check himself, 
aware of a perilous ribaldry encouraged by some saintly 
legend. Was she a Catholic? He risked the question 
nervously. 

“A Roman Catholic?” she corrected. “No. You're not 
shocking me. Go on about the Tarasque. It sounds like 
a second cousin to Carpaccio’s Basilisk. I love all those 
mythical beasts. Couldn’t I work it into my Masque ?” 

He looked up eagerly, recognizing a fellow-spirit: the 
eternal call for fresh “copy.” 

“Why not ?” He saw that her face was veiled in a sudden 
abstraction. “But how would you do it?” 

“An absurd dance — to solemn music. No, it’s impossi- 
ble! One couldn’t bring in St. Martha. It might oflfend 


160 


TORQUIL’S SUCCESS 

religious people and, of course, it’s for a charity. What 
a pity! Can’t you see me, leading the Tarasque on a 
ribbon?” 

“I can see you — leading the world.” It slipped out fer- 
vently, and a sudden panic succeeded the words. 

“The Flesh and the Devil,” she added gaily. Torquil 
drew a breath of relief ; he was saved. “But what should 
I represent?” 

“Desire,” he thought. Out aloud, he substituted, “Imag- 
ination.” 

“Yes — that’s good. The Uncrowned Leader. Unrecog- 
nized, save by the few, elusive, in a phantom dance.” There 
was mystery in the curve of her lips. 

In a dream they sped through Kingston. Now silence 
was a beautiful thing. It would be sacrilege to break it. 

They came at last to an open space suggesting a village 
green and turned off to the left. 

“We’re here.” Her voice was abrupt. She drew up at 
the further entrance of a house in the uneven row of quaint 
old buildings facing the grass. “Will you get down and 
open the gates? Then I’ll take the car inside.” 

Torquil obeyed her directions. She steered it between 
the crumbling posts, stopped the engines and stood up. 

“I shan’t want this indoors.” She slipped off the leather 
coat and flung it across the back of the car. 

He helped her down with a glance at her feet. Antelope 
shoes, with blue heels, matching her peacock gown. From 
her white throat hung Mummy beads, like flakes from an 
Egyptian tile. As she drew off her fringed gloves, he saw 
a green-blue scarab ring on her finger — a carved turquoise, 
dimmed by age, set in a band of silver. The “Serpent of 
Nile” — Cleopatra! The thought was followed by another, 
stirred from memory’s hiding-place, his scornful retort to 
Josephine: “She ruined Mark Antony.” A sudden sense 
of peril seized him. He stiffened, frowning down at her. 
What was she saying? His anger increased. 

“A German ?” He gave a quick look at the house, mis- 
trustful, as if he expected some trap. 


THE FLAME 


161 


“Yes, but naturalized. The greatest pianist of his day 
— cruelly treated. Not by us. By the Huns — just like 
them!” Her lip curled. “He was worshipped in Berlin 
and in every foreign capital, Petrograd especially. Pie lived 
there for ten years, attached to the Russian Court. Then, 
in his old age, he longed for Germany again and returned 
— to find he was forgotten! It was the era of Richard 
Strauss. His concert-hall was half-filled; there was a 
dastardly criticism, a combination of agents against him, 
all bought by newer men. He was vieux jeu — they laughed 
at him! He shook the dust from off his feet, came to 
England, was naturalized, and settled down as a teacher. 
But his heart was broken. He’s never recovered.” A 
quiver came into her hushed voice. 

Torquil’s resentment melted before it. 

“I see.” It was an apology. 

She looked at him steadily. 

“You mustn’t come in unless you want to. Not if you 
feel aggressive. He’d know it. I can’t have him hurt. 
He’s my friend.” Her proud head went up. 

“I want to.” He was humbled; a new sensation, part 
pleasure, part pain. 

She smiled and spoke impulsively : 

“Oh, I knew I was right, in the Park.” 

He glowed under her subtle praise. She had chosen 
him deliberately, out of her crowd of friends; not only as 
useful but understanding. Bless her! He followed her to 
the porch. 

A German servant opened the door, an old man, wrinkled, 
mistrustful. His face cleared when he saw Fiammetta. 
She greeted him in his own language. It gave Torquil a 
queer shock — a sense of disloyalty — but he shook it off 
determinedly. Fair play. She expected it. The man was 
an outcast; England his refuge. 

Fiammetta beckoned to him and made her way down a 
long, flagged passage that ended in mahogany doors, a 
feature of the old house. She opened them gently. A 
sudden wave of music swept out into their faces. Stunned 


162 


TORQUIL’S SUCCESS 

by its volume, Torquil paused, staring at the panelled room 
with its polished floor and sense of space, unbroken by 
furniture, given up to the grand piano from which rolled 
those mighty chords. The light filtered in through a window 
that was low and long with a cushioned seat. It left the 
corners veiled in shadows, but haloed the massive head of 
the engrossed musician. Fiammetta had moved forward 
into his line of vision, and Torquil could see the deep old 
eyes, sunk in a settled melancholy, light up as she reached 
his side. 

“Ach, my Beautiful, it is Thou !” His fingers quivered 
and grew rigid, the pedal sustaining the last notes. “Thou 
hast come to hear an old man play?” 

Her arm went round his bent shoulders, a gesture filial 
yet protective. She whispered something in his ear. 

“So?” He raised his hands for a second. With a deli- 
cate gesture, as though he plucked something alive from 
the ivory keys, he picked up the broken melody and was 
lost once more in his dreams. 

Fiammetta withdrew on tiptoe and settled herself in the 
window-seat, signing to Torquil. He sat down beside her. 
She whispered, under her breath : 

“I can’t introduce you — you understand? If he’s inter- 
rupted by a stranger, he gets angry or he cries. The war 
completed the wreck of his nerves.” 

“They didn’t intern him?” 

She shook her head. 

“We — a few sane people — saw to that, mercifully. Still 
he suffered. The long strain and the unending suspicion. 
He hardly went outside his door.” 

Torquil nodded. Fiammetta leaned back and gave her- 
self up to that faultless execution. He felt her drift away 
from him into a land he could not enter. Although he 
loved it, he had no knowledge of music to match her own. 
He was fascinated nevertheless, by the power that poured 
from the shrunken figure, wrapped in a padded dressing- 
gown, frayed at the turned-back cuffs. It was thrown open 
at the neck and the cords stood out in the wasted throat 


THE FLAME 


163 


that seemed too frail for the size of his head. There were 
bluish hollows in his cheeks and the under-lip sagged, slightly 
vacant. But the forehead retained its nobility and the 
wonderful, supple, ivory hands. The soul lived on, though 
the brain was clouded. 

His eyes came back to Fiammetta. Behind her was a 
curtain in a peculiar vivid purple that hung in straight stiff 
lines of silk interwoven with silver thread. Wonderful stuff ! 
His fingers stole to the fellow drapery at his side. The 
girl caught the action and nodded. 

“It came out of the Winter Palace — a present from the 
late Czarina. That writing-table, too,” she whispered, point- 
ing to the far corner. “The top’s one slab of malachite, with 
a border of worked gold. Those jewels studding it are 
real. It must be worth a king’s ransom. That case beyond 
holds all his orders.” She stopped, her finger to her lips. 
The music had sunk to a thread of sound like wind sighing 
over the sea. 

Torquil found himself holding his breath, fearful of 
missing those phantom notes. He shifted his position 
slightly, to lean against the folded shutters, and became 
aware of Bushey Park stretching away from the window 
into violet distances. A herd of deer browsed under the 
trees, barely a stone’s throw from the house. It was like 
a background of tapestry, of dappled green and brown 
stitches, with, against it, the girl’s still head. Now he knew, 
the vision complete. In far-off, mediaeval days he had been 
her devout page, dedicated to her service, writing for her 
some Romance of the Rose, to sing, impassioned, over his 
lute, as she listened by her embroidery frame. Or perhaps 
Boccaccio himself, betraying his love for the Queen of 
Naples : the Fiammetta of his stories. Legend. The music 
whispered the word — eternal fancy and inspiration. 

Twilight stole up through the trees but Torquil dreamed 
on. He saw himself, laurel-crowned, laying his life-work 
before her; his masterpiece, bound in vellum, folded be- 
tween those slender hands. 

He started, feeling her stir. She whispered: 


164 


TORQUIL’S SUCCESS 

“We must go. It's getting late. If we’re quiet, we shan’t 
disturb him. Follow me.” She rose softly and they stole 
across by the farther wall. He felt for the handle of the 
door and opened it. They were outside, undetected, no 
break in the stately music. He drew a deep breath of 
relief and looked at his fellow-conspirator. 

“Well, was it worth it?” she asked lightly. 

Again he felt tongue-tied. 

“You know it was,” he murmured, vexed. 

“Copy!” she said provokingly. “And it isn’t over yet. 
There’s a contrast to follow that will delight not only your 
artistic soul but — well, the inner man!” 

She was off, down the flagged passage, had crossed the 
hall and turned aside to tap at a painted door before Torquil 
caught her up. 

A sharp voice answered, “Come !” 

Torquil, over her shoulder, as she entered the room, saw 
a kitchen, spotlessly clean, with a fine array of polished pans. 
A woman bent over the stove, stirring some steaming 
mixture and in the air was the fragrant scent of vanilla pods 
and chocolate. She greeted them volubly, in German. Tor- 
quil understood but little. He gathered that they were ex- 
pected; “Johann” had fetched the cream. Would they 
sit down, please, and pardon her if she saw to “the Master” 
first. On the table was a checked cloth, thick cups and a 
cake. 

The woman wore a big apron over her voluminous skirts ; 
her sleeves were rolled above her elbows. Her plain but 
kindly face was hot, under her strained back, grey hair. 
A German cook, he decided, trying in vain to follow the 
chatter. At last, Fiammetta mentioned his name, adding 
“an author, fond of music.” 

The old woman nodded and smiled. Had “the Master” 
played? Was he looking tired? 

“We keep up his strength, so ” She broke an egg 

into a basin, beat it quickly and strained it into one of the 
thick cups, then filled this up with chocolate, steaming, 
from off the stove. From another basin she took a big 


THE FLAME 


165 


spoonful of whipped cream and nodded at Torquil. “Of 
the egg he nothing knows!” She crowned the cup with a 
snowy crest. 

“Bitte, excuse me.” She passed out, carrying the little 
tray, her shapeless body amazingly active. 

“She adores him,” said Fiammetta, smiling. “I hope 
you like chocolate? It’s always so good here. Let’s cut 
the cake — I’m hungry. I love tea in the kitchen.” 

Here was another side to the girl who had danced at the 
wedding, a social success. He watched her pointed teeth 
close on the slice like a happy schoolgirl’s, and wondered. 
She made a little grimace at him. 

“Try it. It’s delicious !” 

He followed her example and, when the old woman 
returned, drank the thick chocolate with its vanilla-flavoured 
cream, inwardly amused at the picture of his lady, her 
elbows propped on the table, so utterly at ease, chattering 
to the old servant. No, she was not the Fiammetta of 
Boccaccio’s roving fancy. It was an insult. She was a 
child, on the borderland of womanhood, still jealous of 
her toys. 

Later, as he tucked the rug about her in the car, he was 
conscious of a change in her, a swift resumption of dignity. 
Yet to his deep amazement she had kissed the old woman 
on both cheeks, bidding her “take care of the Master” when 
they parted from her in the hall. Now, aloof in her leathern 
coat, she drove, her eyes fixed ahead, ignoring' the man 
by her side, forgetful, apparently, of his presence. 

On they went, past shops and houses, out into the open 
country. He fretted against her indifference. At last, in 
despair, he broke the silence: 

“He’s lucky to have a woman like that to look after him, 
poor old chap. Nothing like a good cook, even if you are a 
genius !” 

The car swerved out of its course as she turned her head 
and stared at him. 

“Cook? She’s his wife!” A laugh escaped her, com- 
pleting Torquil’s discomfiture. 


166 


TORQUIL’S SUCCESS 

“Wife? I You didn’t say so.” He began to stam- 

mer, hot and angry. “She c-called him ‘the Master,’ so — 
well, it was a k-kitchen, wasn’t it?” 

Fiammetta rocked on her seat. 

“Then that’s why you were so stiff! And I never 
guessed.” She bubbled over. “Oh, Torquil, you are 
delicious !” 

In the midst of his resentment the sound of his name on 
her lips startled him. It seemed full of a new charm and 
significance. Was it really so musical? He had adopted it 
on account of a certain hard ring. A Highland name that 
held to him the cold depths of a Northern loch. Now she 
gave it a warm grace. Yet he sulked, aware of ridicule; 
the bitterest draught to a man in love. 

The car spun on through the gloom, the fringed gloves 
on the wheel. He would not even look at her. She said, 
as if to herself : 

“A relic of old Germany. Before all that was fine and 
simple was trodden under by the Prussian. A ruined nation, 
body and soul. Yet there must be a leaven somewhere? 
That dear old woman, now. It’s a perfect Liebeslied. She 
could have shared in his triumphs, been the friend of 
queens, yet she chose instead to remain a simple background 
figure, wrapped up in her man’s comfort. Isn’t that love 
at its highest?” 

“I suppose so.” His voice was grudging. 

“It’s what you preached yourself,” she persisted, “in 
An Outsider — the main thesis. A simplicity, finer than any 
tradition of birth, and a nobility, the result of character. 
Well, here you have it in the flesh. Don’t you like it?” 
She switched the brakes on so suddenly that the car jarred 
and groaned beneath them and a dark object slipped across 
the road and leaped into the hedge. “My God, I thought 
I’d run over that cat!” 

The engine had stopped. He saw her hand for a moment 
pressed to her heart. 

“It’s all right. You didn’t,” he said. “Little brute! 
It deserved it.” 


THE FLAME 


167 


She gave a rather shaky laugh. 

“We must get down and light the lamps. Or they’ll 
run us in when we come to London.” 

He helped her out. She leaned on his arm and paused, 
to look at his sombre face. 

“First I spoil your afternoon by teasing you, and then, 
I nearly murder a cat ! Anyhow I deserve a fright. Am I 
a good thought-reader?” 

“You are.” He fought against her charm. 

“Then I’ll add the sequel: I’m forgiven?” Tier narrowed 
eyes searched his. 

He was silent, baffled, mistrusting his voice. 

“If you don’t forgive me” — her lips quivered — “I shall 
leave you here in the wilderness. I’m sensitive, too, you 
see.” 

“Ah, don’t!” It was wrung from him. Was she still 
mocking, or serious? 

“Torquil” — her lips barely moved — “I’m a little beast. 
Let’s light the lamps.” She slipped past him, but not before 
he had felt the quick pressure of her hand on his arm, 
repentant and sincere. 

He helped her clumsily, in silence. The glow that spread 
in a fan on the road lit up her white face and accentuated 
the gloom around them and the emptiness of the open waste. 
They seemed to be alone in the world. As she straightened 
herself, a gust of wind tore at her coat and it swung wide, 
flapping like a loose sail. Torquil caught it and drew it 
together. With fingers that shook, he fastened the buttons. 

“You mustn’t catch cold,” he said roughly, concealing 
the joy he felt. She was his for the moment, at his mercy. 

“I never catch cold. Jinks used to say that my red hair 
kept me warm. A stove burning in the attic !” She scram- 
bled up into the car. 

“A flame.” Torquil drew up the rug. “When you 
danced the other day it reminded me of some verses called 
‘The Little Salamander.’ Do you know them?” 

“No.” She started the car. “Tell me?” They throbbed 
on through the dusk. 


168 


TORQUIL’S SUCCESS 

He leaned closer, piraid that the wind might blow half 
the words away. He gave the lines their full value : 

“When I go free 
I think ’twill be 
A night of stars and snow, 

And the wild fires of frost shall light 
My footsteps as I go; 

Nobody — nobody will be there 
With groping touch, or sight, 

To see me in my bush of hair 
Dance burning through the night.” 

He heard her whisper under her breath, “ ‘Nobody — 
nobody will be there/ ” 

“Nobody.” His voice was exultant. She would be sacred 
from man’s desire. 

“I couldn’t stand it. I love life.” A little shiver passed 
over her. “But I like ‘the white fires of frost.’ Who 
wrote it?” 

“Walter De La Mare.” 

“Say it again. I want to learn it.” 

He did so, his eyes fixed on her face, taking a long fare- 
well of her. This must be their last meeting. She would 
come between him and his work. He was stronger than 
Mark Antony. 


CHAPTER XIV 


J OSEPHINE was writing letters in the drawing-room 
of the Bloomsbury house when the maid ushered in 
Heron. Through a great bough of apple blossom, she 
saw his ugly, powerful face. A smile lurked in the blue 
eyes. 

“On the principle of Mahomet and the Mountain Eve 
brought you my orchard,” he explained, lowering his 
burden into her eager, outstretched hands. 

“How perfectly lovely !” 

“Isn’t it? You should just see the country now.” He 
drank in her simple pleasure. “Don’t you think it was 
brave of me to march through the London streets like this? 
At every moment I expected to hear some cockney voice 
sing out: ‘For I’m to be Queen of the My, mother,’ or be 
run in for obstructing the traffic. In Piccadilly I got tied 
up with a lady’s veil — a terrible business! A veil that fell 
loose to her knees. Is that the latest fashion? She looked 
like a currant bush securely protected from the birds — and 
she wasn’t at all tempting either!” 

“Sure?” Josephine laughed back. She buried her face 
in the blossom and was seized with a sudden scruple. “Oh, 
David, think of all those apples !” 

“There’s gratitude!” He gave a chuckle. “If you were 
a politician you’d add, ‘Still, it’s not too late yet for a frost,’ 
and feel your public conscience cleared. A bird in the hand 
is worth two in the — veil !” 

“I mistrust that adventure!” 

“You shouldn’t. I’m here — with the flowers! Hardly a 
petal missing, save one which I left to cover a hole. Luckily, 
she didn’t spot it. Now, hadn’t I better ring for £lise to 
plant that tree?” 


169 


170 


"ORQUIL’S SUCCESS 


“If you will? But I haven’t thanked you properly.” 

Heron paused, his hand on the bell. 

“Oh, I’m going to claim my reward. I expect you to 
lunch with me. Now, don’t say you’re engaged?” He 
had seen a shadow cross her face. 

“I’m not. But couldn’t we lunch here?” 

“Why?” He smiled, aware of her reason: a desire to 
save him from expense. “I believe you’re afraid of my 
choice of food, having seen my picnic meals at Westwick. 
As a matter of fact, when I’m in town I do myself rather 
well.” 

“Oh, it isn’t that!” 

“Then, come along? I booked a table on my way at 
the Cafe Royal for 1.30. So you’d better get on your hat.” 

“I must change.” She looked down at her clothes. 

“Nonsense! I like you in that frock.” 

“It’s so old,” she protested. 

“All the better. It’s become a part of yourself, indi- 
vidualized. Here’s £lise!” He greeted the maid, smiling 
discreetly on the threshold. “I’m going to steal your mis- 
tress for lunch.” 

“Bien, monsieur ” Her dark eyes glowed. She took the 
bough of apple-blossom, and listened to Josephine’s in- 
structions. “What gown will Madame wear ?” 

“Oh, you women !” groaned Heron. 

Josephine took pity on him. 

“All right. I’ll go as I am.” She dismissed filise with 
a smile, fully aware of the maid’s disappointment: “My 
hat and shoes — I’ll be up in a minute.” 

“How is Richard?” asked Heron as the door closed. 
“I’ve not seen him for ages.” 

“He’s rather depressed, poor dear. Kerin’s death was a 
great shock. He was only ill two days and Richard was so 
fond of him. Of course, too, it’s a loss to the business. He 
was Richard’s leading author, with an enormous circula- 
tion. I’ve never seen Richard look so old as when he came 
back from the funeral. He. was quite broken up. They’d 
always got on so well together.” She added a shade bitterly, 


THE FLAME 


171 


“There are not too many loyal authors. Oh, David, I 
didn’t mean that!” She bit her lip, too late aware of the 

hidden slur. “I know, in your case ” She stopped, 

fearing to say more, divided in her allegiance. 

“He was quite right,” said Heron quickly. “I might 
easily have failed him. Anyhow we’ve remained good 
friends. That’s something, isn’t it?” 

“It’s everything.” She smiled gravely. “I don’t know 
what we should do without you. You and your apple- 
blossom! I won’t be long.” She moved to the door, then 
turned, in sudden mischief. “Shall I wear a veil?” 

“Heaven forbid!” He heard her laugh as she ran up- 
stairs. The sound was music in his ears. 

He came back into the room, picked up a book that 
crowned a pile on the table by her favourite chair and saw 
that it bore Torquil’s name. 

He dipped idly into the pages. A stray passage caught 
his eye and he read on with closer attention, his critical 
faculty aroused: 

“. . . his profound weariness. He found an excuse 
for his defection on the score of a moral impulse. Virtue 
could be useful, at times, when dealing with a woman 
who asked for a Sir Galahad but inwardly favoured Sir 
Lancelot. She 'relied on his chivalry’? He would jus- 
tify her confidence. It set him free. He saw himself, 
riding away from her through the forest of his perplexi- 
ties and disillusions — a White Knight.” 

“Very Torquilesque,” thought Heron. “Just how he 
would go. And damnably pleased with himself !” 

The paper and the clear type appealed to his practised 
eye. Merriman was doing his share generously in his 
author’s bid for success. There was no scamping in space 
or material. 

“Cost something to produce, in these times,” Heron 
decided. He closed the volume with a shrug of his heavy 
shoulders and turned to greet Josephine, aware of her step. 


172 TORQUIL’S SUCCESS 

As they drove to the restaurant he asked after his fellow- 
writer. 

“Torquil? He’s doing splendidly — so Richard tells me. 
The new book is having a record sale, both here and in 
America.” 

Heron nodded. 

“And how is he looking?” 

“I haven’t seen him since my return.” Her eyes did not 
meet his, but gazed past him at the pavements, crowded, 
of Shaftesbury Avenue. “I expect he’s been busy, work- 
ing; making up for his holiday.” She went on, rather 
quickly, “Did you see that girl in the patchwork hat? 
Really, London is amusing! Colour seems to be running 
mad. I suppose it’s the reaction after the drab days of 
war.” 

“Probably.” Heron’s voice was absent. So Torquil 
had “ridden away” to fresh adventures, forgetting Les 
Lecques and Josephine’s unfailing kindness? He shook 
himself free from his disgust as they passed through the 
swing doors of the Cafe Royal and up the steep, carpeted 
stairs. 

He had secured a corner table in the larger room close 
to a window and he led his guest to it with the secret pride 
of a lover, aware of curious glances in passing and his lady’s 
serene unconcern. 

“I like this place,” he confessed, as they sat down facing 
the room. “There’s plenty of space. You don’t get ruffled 
by waiters charging against your chair, or feel that your 
neighbours are obliged to share in your conversation.” 

“And there’s no band — such a relief!” Josephine ad- 
mitted gaily. “I’m so weary of Jazz music. Look! That’s 
Arkwright who’s just come in. Detestable man!” She 
bowed coolly, the bow that a woman gives when she’s 
recognized against her will. 

“He’s always here — the old poacher! Seeking whom he 
may devour. I see he’s got that clever author of The Slip 
Knot on his new list. Wonderful, how he picks them up.” 

“It’s disgusting,” said Josephine. “He never brings out 


THE FLAME 


173 


a new author but waits until he makes a hit, then bribes 
him to leave his publisher. Of course he can afford good 
terms. He has taken no risks and he profits by the initial 
advertisements — though he doesn’t always keep them up. 
He stole ‘Marion Cass’ from Richard, but two years later 
she came back. She couldn’t stand Arkwright’s ways. He 
let her down over serial rights and bullied her into changing 
her style as not sufficiently ‘popular.’ ” 

They watched the publisher order his wine with a lordly 
manner and stroll away to await his guest in the little 
lounge. 

“Let’s have a bet,” said Heron. “Ten bob to a tanner 
that it’s a man he’s expecting. If I win, you give me six- 
pence.” 

Josephine hesitated. 

“Come, be sporting!” Heron smiled. “I’ll confess I’m 
taking a base advantage, which I’ll explain afterwards.” 

“Done!” She entered into the jest. “Now, tell me all 
the Westwick news?” 

“I’m afraid there’s nothing very startling. The Dela- 
portes have come home. She looks worn, but as plucky as 
ever. Oh, and Oliphant’s dismissed. That will please you, 
I know. She couldn’t stand the man’s manner. Mrs. 
Brackney has been ill, and the Colonel, too — influenza. But 
they’re both convalescent now.” 

“And how is Carrie?” 

“Beauteous as ever! Selling eggs ‘at market price’ and 
cutting down the margarine. I lunched there last week 
and foolishly helped myself to butter. It gave Carrie her 
chance. She set me at ease by remarking: ‘Isn’t it dread- 
ful the way we’re rationed? Only two ounces per head a 
week/ Hullo !” He stared across the room. 

Arkwright was returning, in his wake a tall figure moving 
with a faint swagger, head flung back aggressively. The 
pair sat down at a farther table and immediately began to 
talk, the guest leaning towards his host, engrossed in the 
latter’s conversation. 

Heron glanced at Josephine. Her face was strained and 


174 


TORQUIL’S SUCCESS 

incredulous. As he watched her, he saw her nostrils curl, 
an angry light spring up in her eyes. 

“I couldn’t have believed it,” she said. “It’s Torquil!” 

Heron nodded. 

“I’m afraid so.” 

His reserved answer annoy eS& her. For once she mis- 
judged her friend. 

“You guessed this? That’s what you meant when you 
betted it would be a man.” 

“Good heavens, no!” He was taken aback. “It was 
merely because he ordered the wine, and a man is less sure 
of a woman’s taste. Josephine?” His voice pleaded. 
Rarely did he take advantage of the permission to use her 
name and it startled her into attention. “Don’t let them 
see you watching them. It may be nothing. There’s no 
reason why Torquil shouldn’t lunch with Arkwright. He 
may want to find out his market value from another pub- 
lisher. Besides, there’s his agreement with Richard.” 

“It was only for two books.” She looked away, helping 
herself to a dish handed by the waiter. Suddenly it flashed 
across her that the new novel had been commenced at Les 
Lecques, herself the main inspiration. Still mistrustful, 
she felt outraged. Then a memory rose to her aid. The 
peaceful room with its waxed floor, the windows open on 
the sea. She could hear again Torquil’s voice as he read 
aloud from the manuscript, his face outlined against the 
lamp, whilst through the scented Southern night came the 
faint rustle of the palm leaves, stirred by a passing breeze. 
Her book! He had emphasized this, shyly, with a wistful 
glance that breathed of gratitude and devotion. How 
absurd it was to doubt him, even in Arkwright’s company 
and after his apparent neglect. Heron was right. She was 
too impulsive, too easily hurt by the boy’s silence. He was 
absorbed in his work; not ungrateful, merely thoughtless. 
She looked up with a smile, feeling Heron’s eyes upon her. 

“I was only thinking of Richard,” she pleaded. “1 
don’t want him to be worried.” 

“No, you must tell him.” His voice was grave. 


THE FLAME 


175 


“Must I? I’m sure it’s all right.” 

“I wouldn’t trust Arkwright,” he insisted. 

“Oh, no.” Her scorn equalled his. “But Richard’s been 
so good to Torquil.” 

“Still, a hint would do no harm.” Heron tried to speak 
lightly. “It might influence him when it comes to terms 
over the new book. You see?” He filled up her glass and 
murmured, “Take care. Torquil’s seen you.” 

A faint colour rose in her cheeks. He watched her ap- 
provingly as she raised her head with a steady courage and 
met that distant, startled glance. Across the intervening 
space the two pairs of eyes met, the dark ones furtive and 
troubled, the grey full of a clear light. 

She smiled and nodded, her brows raised. Torquil bowed 
awkwardly. A moment later he stood up, murmured some- 
thing to his host and made his way to the corner table. 

“How do you do, Mrs. Merriman?” Her light hand lay 
in his. It seemed strange to him that her touch had once 
held the power to thrill him. This was not the Josephine of 
his book, but a stranger, bearing a wistful resemblance. 
There were tiny lines round her starry eyes under the cold 
light of the window ; her ashen hair looked like silver. She 
was a ghost, not a flame that danced, “burning, through the 
night.” He found himself saying smoothly, “I’ve been 
coming to see you but, somehow, I’ve been so frightfully 
busy lately. You do understand?” 

“Of course.” She smiled, gracious but dignified. “An 
author has little time for calls. You remember Mr. Heron ?” 

“Why, yes!” He nodded, slightly aggressive. “It seems 
only the other day that I left you both at Les Lecques.” 
He fidgeted. “I mustn’t stay, but I wanted one word with 
you. I’m lunching with Arkwright — I think you know 
him? Talking shop! It’s interesting to hear about other 
authors. I met him at the Considines.” He aired the name 
a trifle too indifferently and Heron smiled in his sleeve. 
“An odd thing — I believe Mr. Merriman is bringing out a 
book of reminiscences written by Lady Mary’s cousin.” 

“It’s a small world,” said Heron gravely. The phrase 


176 


TORQUIL’S SUCCESS 

was anathema to him. He wondered how Torquil would 
take it. He saw Josephine’s lip quiver. Her sense of 
humour was stirred by Torquil’s new society manner. 

“The people you met at Tarascon? I remember.” She 
referred to a letter which Torquil had foolishly forgotten. 

He coloured, aware of his error and of a vivid caricature 
of mother and daughter, drawn with malice for Josephine’s 
benefit, in the early days of his wanderings. 

“Yes. They’ve been very kind to me since my return,” 
he explained stiffly. 

To Josephine came the swift thought that he could spare 
time for these new friends. Her eyes drifted past him to 
Arkwright, who was studying the little group. 

“You mustn’t forget your host,” she suggested. 

“No. May I come and see you one Sunday?” 

“Do. We shall be in town for a month.” Her pride 
made her add pleasantly, “I must congratulate you on the 
success of your new book.” He should not see that she was 
hurt. 

For a moment he was the old Torquil. 

“You’ve heard ?” — an absurd boyish question — “It’s splen- 
did, isn’t it?” 

She smiled up into his dark eyes, her generosity aroused, 
responding to the call of youth. 

“I told you it would be a success! I’m looking forward 
now to the next one, and your descriptions of Les Lecques.” 

His face changed, suddenly sombre. 

“I’m afraid you will have some time to wait. Mr. 
Merriman doesn’t want to publish it until next spring — 

although it’s almost finished. Still ” He left the phrase 

incomplete. “I must go. Good-bye, Mrs. Merriman. So 
glad to have had a glimpse of you.” He nodded to Heron 
and moved away. 

They watched him rejoin his host in a silence that neither 
cared to break; saw Arkwright lean forward as though he 
questioned his companion and, a moment after, heard his 
laugh. 


THE FLAME 177 

Heron's mouth instinctively tightened. Trust Torquil? 
Never, he thought. 

“Coming on, isn’t he?” There was malice in his glance. 
He was conscious that Josephine was merely playing with 
her food. He cursed Torquil for spoiling their lunch. 
“Are you aware that you owe me sixpence?” 

She started, and met his steady glance. Behind the smile 
and the light remark, she read his unfailing sympathy. 

“Do I? Of course. The bet — I’d forgotten! You’ll 
have to wait. This is so delicious.” She took a mouthful 
of sweetbread with a dainty parody of greed. 

“I don’t think I can wait,” said Heron. The corners of 
his lips curled. “In my wildest dreams I never imagined 
I should make sixpence out of Torquil. That’s why I’m 
so grasping.” 

“But it isn’t Torquil’s — it’s mine,” she protested, with 
an assumption of gaiety. “Or rather, Richard’s.” 

“It’s all the same to an author!” He saw that she had 
caught his meaning by the faint protest on her face, and 
changed the subject, anxious to draw her thoughts into a 
pleasanter channel. “When are you coming back to West- 
wick ?” 

“In about a month’s time, I hope.” She added mys- 
teriously, “for good.” 

“For the summer, you mean ?” he asked quickly. 

“No, a little longer than that.” She could not resist 
teasing him. “Do you think you could put up with us as 
permanent neighbours, David?” 

Staring at her, he guessed her secret. 

“You’re leaving London ! Letting the house ?” 

She nodded, touched by the eagerness that rang out in 
his voice. 

“We hope to dispose of the lease. It’s such an expense 
in these days keeping up two places, and the house is ab- 
surdly large for us. I can always run up to an hotel and 
Richard can fall back on his club. But this is between our- 
selves at present. Nothing definitely settled. As you know, 


178 


TORQUIL’S SUCCESS 

I prefer Westwick, so it’s no deprivation to me, and I feel 
it will lessen Richard’s burden. He’s not well. I’m wor- 
ried about him.” Her delicate brows were drawn together. 
“You approve?” 

“I do — quite apart from selfish reasons. There's no 
need to tell you that I’m glad — you know that — but I think 
it’s better for your husband’s sake.” 

“It was very difficult to persuade him. He’s attached 
to the old house, for more than domestic reasons. It was 
a milestone in his career.” 

“Yes.” Heron looked away. He was wondering what 
lay behind the words. Was there grave need for retrench- 
ment? 

Josephine must have guessed his thought, for she went 
on rather quickly: 

“We shall store most of the furniture. Later on, we 
might take a flat. Richard hates the idea of a sale, although 
we should get a good profit now, but it’s not so much a 
question of money as of lessening his responsibilities.” 

“Of course.” Heron agreed promptly. He was not de- 
ceived by her argument. He realized that the Merrimans 
were feeling the pinch of heavy prices and the narrow 
margins in publishing. In one of those sudden silences 
which settle mysteriously on a room at intervals, he heard 
Arkwright’s sleek and insinuating voice: 

“Well, let me know later on. You have my address?” 

The reply was drowned in a rising hum of chatter from 
the intervening tables. 

Heron’s strong mouth tightened. Was Torquil aware of 
his publisher’s straits? Would he be the next to desert the 
ship, fearful of the sunken rocks in the false calm succeeding 
the storm — that Peace which demanded so heavy a price? 
Josephine must not read his thoughts. He raised his liqueur 
glass and smiled at her across the rim. 

“To Sister Ann! Won’t she be pleased? May I tell 
her — in strict confidence ?” 

“Do. Dear Sister Ann.” The strained look died out of 
her face. 


THE FLAME 


179 


“She’ll be watching breathlessly now,” said Heron. 
“Gazing up the lane to the station. What is it?” he asked 
quickly. For a shiver had passed over his guest and it 
seemed to him that she had paled. 

“Nothing!” She straightened her shoulders bravely. “A 
goose must have walked over my grave.” 

“Have another cr&me de menthe ?” 

“My dear David !” She laughed at him. “I’m not accus- 
tomed to these orgies. What would Torquil say if he saw 
his publisher’s wife helped out by the waiter?” 

“He’d be very worried.” Heron grinned. “Tie up his 
shoe-lace as you passed. I doubt if the situation is dealt 
with in any book on etiquette.” 

“Poor Torquil!” Josephine smiled. “You think he’s 
been studying one lately?” 

“Learning it off by heart,” said Heron. He looked at 
her wickedly. “I’m jealous — that’s the truth. That part- 
ing remark, deliciously pat. ‘So glad to have had a glimpse 
of you!’ Why can’t I think of things like that?” 


CHAPTER XV 


H E was utterly miserable. He couldn’t write. He 
could only think of his lost dignity and the bit- 
terness of his disillusion. To have been her dupe 
in a base intrigue — he used the strongest words he could 
find — to have helped her, all unwittingly, into the arms of 
another man! 

Why had he broken his solemn vow — losing the perfect 
memory of that ride home through the dusk, her voice in 
his ears, the scent of her hair swept across him by the 
wind? Fiammetta! Torquil groaned, his head laid on 
his arms across the blotted, hopeless page. 

From below came the sound of girlish laughter, and a 
boy’s voice: “Three love! Buck up, you two!” The 
tennis courts were crowded this sunny Saturday. 

Just a fortnight ago, thought Torquil. 

He could see himself driving down in the big black car 
like a gondola to Ranelagh, Fiammetta’s guest; Fiammetta, 
in palest pink with a grey cloak about her shoulders and a 
hat of folded camelia petals, exquisite as a tropical flower. 
Beside her, the quaint contrast of Miss Bellace with a 
Royalty fringe and a tight waist, in a flutter of old-maidish 
anxiety. Would this wonderful weather last? It was due 
to the spots on the sun. Why did they laugh ? It was per- 
fectly true — she had read it in the Daily Mail. Fiammetta, 
eyes half-closed, smiling lazily at Torquil, encouraging “the 
Sacrifice” in her miracles of science. The gathering press 
of carriages, the halt at the gates for the vouchers ; and the 
club-house with its bright chintzes, its history and romance, 
the faces of long-dead members of the Kit-Cat Club on the 
stairs, peering down at modern fashion. A dream of luxury 
and laughter that persisted as he sat between the well- 

180 


THE FLAME 


181 


dressed pair and watched the polo, subconsciously recording 
impressions of the gay scene, yet acutely aware of the girl 
beside him and each movement of her graceful head. Then, 
a sudden sense of loss as she rose, with a glance at the 
strolling crowd behind them, smiled at Miss Bellace and 
slipped away for “a word with Pierrot.” 

Torquil was left alone with the simpering chaperon, wait- 
ing — for ever waiting. . . . 

How she talked, that foolish woman! He found himself 
urging her at last to be careful of the “treacherous wind,” 
suggesting a walk as the cure. No sign of Fiammetta. They 
made their way through the crowd to tea. To his question 
regarding her strayed charge, Miss Bellace returned a trust- 
ful answer that completed his measure of contempt. Fiam- 
metta was perfectly safe with Monsieur de Lusignan. A 
charming man — did Torquil know him? Attached to the 
French Embassy. So witty and agreeable, a splendid dancer, 
in great request. 

Tea — a futile tete-a-tete, Miss Bellace agitated because 
the spout of the tea-pot was broken. “A pity — such a 
pretty pattern!” And Torquil didn’t “take sugar?” That 
was sad, when you could get it. All the time his eyes 
wandered searching for a petaled hat, the brim licked by 
little flames. If only he could get rid of this artificial, 
deluded virgin nibbling cress sandwiches with porcelain 
teeth under sunken lips. What had Nan said about her? 
That “the Sacrifice” was “jolly useful to Fiammetta. Took 
on the men she didn’t want and consoled them!” Torquil 
shuddered. Didn’t want? That was the sting. He was 
there to amuse the chaperon. If only he could escape 
from her ? 

When they left the table he found his chance. Some 
one said : “My dear Euphemia ! I thought I caught sight of 
you just now! Isn’t it a perfect day?” 

He was off with a grateful glance at a stout lady dressed 
in purple whose eager, protruding eyes boiled over the edge 
of a feather ruffle disguising her double chin. Her words 
came out in little pants, like steam from a heated kettle : 


182 


TORQUIL’S SUCCESS 

“And where is — our fair — Fiammetta ?” 

Where indeed? Torquil headed instinctively away from 
the crowd, across the lawn to a glimmer of water. He came 
to the bridge that spans the lake, avoided a youthful couple, 
obviously bent on flirtation, embarking in one of the boats, 
and strode on, seeing beyond a chance of the solitude he 
craved. He must be alone and think. He turned to the 
left along a track used by golfers, skirting the water, crossed 
a little gully and found himself in a sparse grove of trees. 
Suddenly a glimmer of pink caught his eye. He stopped 
dead. Below him, in a punt drawn up to the bank and 
partially screened by a copper beech, was Fiammetta, 
stretched at her ease, her head sunk in a cushion, her face 
turned to her companion whose shoulder was touching hers. 
She had taken off her gloves — they lay across the man’s 
knee — and was trailing her fingers through the water. They 
were not talking. Torquil knew full well that dangerous 
silence. From behind the trunk of a tree he scrutinized 
Pierre de Lusignan. 

He had that tense yet graceful look which marks so many 
of his race. Virile but slender, he might have been a rapier 
made of polished steel. She would strike sparks from him 
but meet with a subtle resistance. He would bend before 
her, but never break : a man versed in the ways of her sex, 
a lover par excellence. 

Languidly she lifted her hand and shook the drops of 
water off it, then held it sideways to her companion. He 
smiled, drew out his handkerchief and wiped those slender, 
pink-tipped fingers. She did not thank him — not in words. 
Instead, she laid the palm lightly against his lips. Torquil 
saw the man’s head go down in sudden passion, mouth 
pressed to that satin cup. 

He could bear no more. He turned and fled through the 
trees into the open, stumbling, the rough grass under his 
feet, in mad revolt and jealousy. He wanted to kill them 
both ; to hold her, dead, in his arms, his face pressed to her 
bruised lips. This was what he had always feared. To be 
at the mercy of his body, no longer master of his soul. 


THE FLAME 


183 


He had no idea of time or direction. He surged on, 
breathless, unseeing. Suddenly he was brought to his senses 
by a hoarse shout. He paused, bewildered. 

“Fore!” The distant voice cracked and a small white 
object whistled past him, so close to his head that he re- 
coiled. It was a golf-ball. Presently a youthful caddy 
panted up, shouldering a heavy bag and warned Torquil 
off the course with a fluent impertinence. 

He found shelter near a hedge and subsided on the root 
of a tree. Slowly his brain cleared. He looked down at the 
watch on his wrist and saw that it was close on six. That 
was the time fixed for departure. If he was going back in 
the car, he must make his way to the Club steps. He 
fought for a moment with the desire to escape then and 
there, but his pride was involved. He would never let her 
see he cared. 

Oh, the misery of that drive home! Pierre de Lusignan 
on the seat beside him, facing Miss Bellace, chatting to her 
in his witty fashion. He hardly glanced at Fiammetta, who 
lazily regarded Torquil from under her half-closed lids; 
Torquil, trying in vain to follow the Frenchman’s elegant 
example. Once, after a long silence, she asked him about 
his writing. When was a new book coming out? This 
gave him his chance. He let her know the full extent of his 
success, with a trace of his old arrogance. She was in- 
terested. 

“I must get it.” 

“No,” said Torquil. “I’ll send you a copy.” He looked 
her straight between the eyes. “As a souvenir of a very 
pleasant afternoon.” 

“Do.” Calmly, she smiled at him. “Though I didn’t 
see much of you. I fell among friends and when I escaped 
I found that the Sacrifice had lost you. That’s always the 
way at Ranelagh.” 

He lied boldly : 

“I came across a man I knew — a college friend. I’m 
afraid we forgot the time.” 

At the corner of Church Street, they dropped him. The 


184 


TORQUIL’S SUCCESS 

Frenchman was dining with them. This was the bitterest 
pill of all : to leave his rival in possession. 

It was over. Never again would he look into that fault- 
less face. She had betrayed his trust in her. He turned to 
work, the mighty consoler. But even his work failed him. 
He had lost the power of concentration and all interest in 
his story. What a mockery to write of love. There was no 
love, only passion — futile jealousy and despair. 

“Deuce ! Well-played !” The boy’s keen voice rose from 
the lawn beneath Torquil’s window. There followed the 
sting of the racket, volleying a high ball. “My advantage!” 
Then “Damn!” in a girl’s vexed soprano. 

Torquil’s bitter lips twisted. The world had gone mad. 
It was ruled by women who swore, smoked, outran the men 
in every conceivable folly and vice. This was what the war 
had brought; Armageddon that was to herald the reign of 
a new Saviour. In the distance, the steam-crane hummed 
in a rising crescendo, aggravating his worn nerves. He 
pushed back his chair and rose from the table. He must 
get out, escape from this room and find relief in rapid 
movement. As he picked up his hat, his eyes fell on a copy 
of his book. He had promised to send one to Fiammetta. 
He hesitated. Yes, he would leave it. Otherwise his 
neglect might look like pique. He took up his pen and 
wrote inside a stereotyped phrase, signing it. He could 
tramp across the Park, hand it in, then take a bus to Hamp- 
stead and the open heath and satisfy his longing for air. 

As he passed up Fulham Road, he caught sight of him- 
self in a mirror in a wood-carver and gilder’s window. How 
haggard he looked ! There were new lines round his mouth 
and the peculiar pallor that an olive skin acquires under the 
stress of emotion. He might have been forty, he decided. 
It was Fiammetta’s fault. She had robbed him of his 
youth. He hated her. She was a wanton. The word 
was a relief to his feelings. He felt he had dealt her a 
secret blow. Words — there was a magic in words. Of 
late they had deserted him. She had slain his inspiration. 
He would leave his book — a visible act of the last link 


THE FLAME 185 

snapped between them — and take up his old life, his fight 
for success, freed from her spell. 

Fate willed otherwise. He had rung the bell of the high, 
white house when the door burst open and Nan emerged, 
followed by Pierre de Lusignan. 

“Hullo! It’s you!" She laughed at Torquil. “We 
thought you’d vanished into space. Haven’t seen you for 
ages.” Over her shoulder, she called back, “Fiammetta, 
here’s Torquil!” 

“I can’t stop,” he said quickly. “Just leaving this.” He 
held out his book. But a voice came over the banisters : 

“Tell him to come up.” 

He was aware of Lusignan’s amused smile, of a sense of 
perfection about his well-dressed, graceful figure, and of 
Nan’s alert, mischievous eyes. He lost his head and moved 
forward; anywhere to escape from this close scrutiny. 

“He’s coming,” Nan sang out. “Good-bye, Torquil. 
Don’t forget we’re always at home on Sundays. There’s a 
taxi, Pierrot!” She ran down the steps. 

Some one closed the door behind him and the footman — 
whom he recognized as the man who had ordered him off 
the carpet in that far-away dream night — was piloting him 
up the stairs. 

Baffled and furious, he found himself in a lofty room — • 
the strangest he had ever seen. The floor was stained red 
and polished; a Pompeian red that matched the tone of 
the surrounding walls as high as the frieze, which was copied 
from a famous one in the Naples Museum, where nymphs 
and fauns danced before a chariot drawn by a pair of 
panthers. The ceiling and the curtains were black. A great 
couch ran across one side of the room, piled up with red 
cushions, and in the centre was a bust, on a high pedestal, 
dominating the empty space. 

Intrigued, he approached it, to find that it was roughly 
made in plaster ; of Bacchus, ivy-wreathed, with his sensual, 
gloating smile. The plinth was of cardboard and wood, 
painted to resemble marble. Amidst the refined costliness 
of the few pieces of furniture flattened against the walls, 


186 


TORQUIL’S SUCCESS 

it looked grotesque and meretricious. He was still staring 
at it when the folding doors on his right slid apart and 
Fiammetta appeared in the opening. 

“Admiring my dancing-partner? X made it for me, 

a birthday present!” She mentioned carelessly the name 
of a famous sculptor. “It’s the gem of my ‘properties/ ” 
She advanced, swathed in a black cape, the tasselled end 
thrown over one shoulder. He recognized it at once, an 
unforgettable part of that first, moonlight vision. “How 
are you?” She extended a hand, revealing an arm bare to 
the shoulder that gleamed like marble, slender but rounded. 
“I’ve been dancing. I didn’t wait to change. I guessed 
you had brought me your book.” 

He held it out without a word. From beneath the edge 
of the sable wrap he could see her feet, exquisite and bare 
as her arms, in golden sandals. Round her head was a 
wreath of vine-leaves, with a cluster of purple grapes on 
either side that swung over her little ears. A faint colour 
was in her cheeks, the result of exercise, and her eyes to-day 
were a limpid blue. 

“Sit down.” She waved him to the couch, standing 
before him and turning the leaves of his book in her hand, 
interested. “I thought you had forgotten it.” 

“No. I’ve been busy.” His voice was husky. His eyes 
followed her moving fingers, seeing them pressed to his 
rival’s lips. He was suffering abominably. 

She glanced up and was struck by his pallor. 

“You’ve been working too hard. You look worn-out.” 

The unexpected sympathy, together with the power of 
suggestion, acted on his strained nerves. A wave of giddi- 
ness swept across him. He put up a hand to his head ; the 
red floor swayed up and down. Was he going to faint? 
This was the limit! Her voice reached him from far away. 

“You’re ill? Lean back and rest. Another cushion — 
that’s it! You’d better have a glass of wine?” She was 
moving away to the bell, but he checked her. 

“It’s nothing.” He set his teeth. “The heat — and I 
walked rather fast.” Mortified, he tried to straighten him- 


THE FLAME 


187 


self and force a smile. “Idiotic of me. I’m all right.” 

“Sure?” How gentle and sweet she looked, a faint 
pucker between her brows. “I know so well how you 
feel.” Did she? He studied her wistfully, as she ran on, 
giving him time to recover. “I go full tilt at things, too, 
and then, suddenly I collapse. When that Masque was over, 

I was dead to the world ! That’s the price one pays for 
success. Still, it’s worth it, isn’t it, Torquil?” 

“Yes.” He was feeling better. Her words acted as a 
tonic. 

“Don’t move!” She sat down beside him, forestalling 
his attempt to rise. “And it was a success. Did you see 
the picture of it in the Tatler? There was a fine one of 
Nan. She’s coming on in her dancing. We’re getting up 
a new show. I’m sure one of the scenes would amuse you. 
It’s called The Temptation of Pussyfoot. I’m a Bacchante. 
I worship Bacchus — we were rehearsing it just now — then 
in comes Pierrot as ‘Pussyfoot.’ ” Torquil winced, un- 
noticed by her. “Such a lovely get-up! Can you picture 
him, with a goatee beard like Uncle Sam, in stars and 
stripes, with absurd high boots made of cat-skin? He pads 
about, ‘pussyfooting,’ and tries his hardest to convert me. 
Nan joins us, as a cellar-maid, carrying bottles under her 
arm — from a private cellar, bien entendu, of some American 
millionaire — and between us Pussyfoot succumbs. He 
kneels at the feet of Bacchus and pours out a libation whilst 
I crown him with my vine-wreath ! It’s sure to bring down 
the house.” She laughed. “The moral is excellent, too. 
It shows the weakness of the scheme; a loophole left for 
the richer classes whilst the poor man is robbed of his 
beer. You must come and see it. I’ll send you a ticket.” 
Her feet tapped on the floor. “If only there was some one 
to play, I’d show you the opening dance now. I wonder” — 
She stood up. “Would it amuse you, without the music?” 

“Very much.” He caught at the straw. Anything to 
give him time to pull his scattered wits together and to 
beat a retreat with dignity. 

He watched her move away from the couch, unwrap the 


188 


TORQUIL’S SUCCESS 

cloak from her figure and fling it carelessly into a corner. 
He gasped. Was it possible? 

She stood there, supremely indifferent, clad in a short 
purple tunic, the colour of the grapes in her hair, caught 
under the small, firm breasts by a girdle of dull gold. One 
shoulder was bared, without the pretence of a strap, the 
folds looped up on the other from which a flexible dappled 
skin, to resemble a leopard’s, hung suspended. Beneath 
the hem gleamed her limbs, naked, perfect as a statue’s. 
As she moved on her arched, sandalled feet, he could see the 
smooth curve of her knees. 

She danced — like that — with the man called Pierrot? 
Every line of her supple figure exposed to a mixed audience, 
white arms above her head, a faint smile curving her lips. 
The blood pounded in Torquil’s temples. He was shocked 
to the depths of his soul. With his ignorance of modern 
dancing on the music-hall stage and the laxity of the 
fashions in woman’s dress — so marked since the war — it 
seemed to him to embody a supreme disregard for decency. 
But it went deeper even than that. She had added the last 
disillusion. She stood revealed, no longer divine but a 
temptation of the flesh, deliberate and provocative. 

He hated her. He would not watch the grace of that 
pagan dance. He felt his strength come flooding back. He 
was saved, on the brink of utter subjection. And suddenly 
it occurred to him that he could repay her conduct in kind 
and wipe out that day at Ranelagh by an equally brutal in- 
difference. The desire for revenge was augmented by the 
memory of an earlier insult. She was Lyddon’s adored 
sister, proud as the man who had scorned Torquil. She 
should see that he could ignore her power. He sank still 
deeper into the cushions and deliberately closed his eyes. 

Over the polished floor he could hear the patter of light 
feet, and feel the stir of the air as she passed him. He drew 
deep, even breaths, feigning sleep, motionless. Suddenly 
there came a silence. He pictured her on tiptoe, amazed; 
checked in her rapid movement, like a dryad, aware of a 
satyr’s step. She was drawing near. His heart thudded. 


THE FLAME 189 

Now, she was bending over him. A faint scent from her 
hair stole across his troubled senses. 

“Asleep ?” 

He heard her whisper the word. He waited, his muscles 
taut. Lower she stooped. Her quick breath fanned his 
cheek. Against his will, every pulse in his body quivered. 
He took a grip on himself, aware of overpowering danger. 
Was she insulted — he dared to hope so — or merely curious 
and amazed? Neither. His senses in a whirl, he felt the 
softest lips in the world touch his and cling for a moment. 
The next, she was gone, with a flutter of garments and the 
noise of the closing door. 

He sat up, clutching the edge of the low couch, dazed 
and shaken. 

She had kissed him! Of her own free will, believing 

him to be asleep. It meant Good God, what did it 

mean? She loved him — returned his passion. But then, 
Pierre de Lusignan? 

Torquil smiled, in sudden triumph. To the Frenchman, 
she had vouchsafed her hand, a royal and imperious favour. 
To Torquil, she gave her lips. All his vanity bubbled up. 
Fiammetta — Lyddon’s sister! Time had planned this 
revenge. His imagination rioted. Never did it occur to 
him that she had seen through his pretence ; that the action 
had been prompted by a sudden perverse impulse, part 
punishment, part pity. Nor that sex had held a share in 
it ; the excitement of the dance with its pagan sensuous- 
ness and the sight of the unawakened dreamer with his cold 
young beauty, resisting her spell. A shepherd, asleep on 
Mount Ida. . . . 

Gone was his ancient rancour, his horror of her scanty 
dress, his excruciating jealousy. She had stooped to him, 
the spring in her blood, stirred by the same call of youth. 
She was his — a success beyond his dreams. 


CHAPTER XVI 


A MAZING, how a man could write with the memory 
of those fresh young lips pressed to his in self-sur- 
render. Unconscious of its truth to life, he stirred 
the Josephine of his romance from her long sleep of igno- 
rance, her starry eyes alight with passion. This was what 
the story needed; the vivid climax of emotion. Now, he 
could write from experience. He raced on through that 
first warm night until the dawn stole in at the window, 
finding relief in expression, in a flood of words and rhythmic 
phrases. She had given him back his inspiration. Not 
Josephine, but Fiammetta. 

Pie could see himself stealing out of her house, most 
blessedly unperceived, to be engulfed in the quiet park. 
The rest of the journey home was obscured. Only when 
he reached his rooms did he find, crushed in his hand, a 
grape that had fallen from her hair as she fled after her 
swift embrace. Out of the whirlwind of his emotions two 
points stood clear. She loved him; it must be a secret. 
He must not betray his inner knowledge of her conduct 
while he “slept.” She was so delicately proud. It would be 
wiser to keep away for a little time to lull her fears. He set 
himself a definite span that would involve strenuous effort. 
He would finish his book first. It was like working for a 
prize ! 

But, beyond this, he saw clearly how much hung on his 
success. If he hoped to win her for his wife, he must have 
not only fame but fortune. Insensibly it altered the trend 
of his ambitions. His books must pay. He did not guess 
that he was standing at the cross-roads of his destiny ; that 
debatable land where many an author halts wearied, to 

190 


THE FLAME 


191 


cry: “Is it worth while ?” Worth the effort of plodding 
on, in the attempt, so often futile, to express the best that 
in him lies. 

He knew that, frequently, great writers in their life-time 
were faced with poverty, adverse criticism and a meagre 
captious public, to achieve fame after death. It meant con- 
stant self-denial. What was it Merriman had said? “If 
you want to be respected, one book a year is quite sufficient.” 

Arkwright had debated the point, had argued that Merri- 
man was old-fashioned. A good old house, but past its 
prime. He had also suggested that Kerin’s death would 
be a blow to its “crumbling finances.” Kerin had stuck 
to Merriman, had been “better paid than most of his 
authors!” A great mistake to cut down terms and rely 
on ancient methods in these days of changed values. He 
quoted, as an instance, the “thirteen to a dozen” conven- 
tion. Obsolete! Arkwright had dropped it long ago; a 
royalty on every copy. Authors must live, and a clever 
writer should be well-treated; a man who “knows what 
the public wants.” Modern stuff, true to life, if you like, 
but with a “snap” in it. Style wasn’t everything. This 
war had slain artificial restrictions. Look at Llewellyn 
Rhyn, for example. Wrote the oddest mixture of slang and 
poetic rhapsody. But it went home; a clever trick. First 
impression, fifty thousand, mainly subscribed before pub- 
lication. In America double that amount. There was suc- 
cess for you ! A man who had never been to college, the 
son of a Welsh miner. Democracy was a good draw. 
Arkwright had read An Outsider, and enjoyed it. It must 
have paid Merriman well? Torquil, too. An eloquent 
pause. And the present book — going strong? He had 
smiled as Torquil explained. Waiting to see how the cat 
jumped before printing a third edition? Absurd! When 
printers were so busy. It only needed a fresh puff; a few 
clever advertisements to reawaken interest. That was Merri- 
man all over! Penny-wise and pound-foolish. Getting a 
bit old, what? And nervous. No confidence in his authors. 

Torquil had listened, nursing his grudge, yet jarred by 


192 


TORQUIL’S SUCCESS 

some of his host’s remarks. What a tradesman Arkwright 
was ! He treated books like bales of cotton. Popularity 
was his goal ; artistic merit nothing to him. Sales, followed 
by cheap editions. 

Still, wasn’t that what an author needed? A shrewd and 
capable middleman. He was sick of Merriman’s advice; 
above all, of his criticism. One book a year? Ridiculous! 
How could a man marry on that ? Round came his thoughts, 
full circle, to the passionate adventure. Who said there 
was no romance in life? She was Lyddon’s sister. In- 
credible ! 

Slowly the sun gathered strength dissolving the night 
mists that floated across the grey roofs and turned the dew 
on the tennis-courts into myriad diamond sparks. Across 
the park in the still, white house, she would be sleeping, 
her burnished hair swept clear from her closed eyes, the 
silky lashes, tipped with gold, like a moth’s wing, on her 
flower face. A sudden weariness overtook him. Pie would 
sleep, too, and dream of her. Yawning, he thrust his papers 
together, undressed and tumbled into bed. 

The days passed in a frenzy of work. At last, late one 
Saturday night, he wrote the final line of his book and 
added those blessed words, “The End.” It was done; he 
had kept his vow. 

Sunday afternoon saw him ringing the bell of the Park 
Lane house, nervous yet triumphant. A fine drizzle veiled 
the streets, silver, shot through by gleams of sunshine that 
touched the red granite of the fountain at the entrance to 
Hertford Street, and shone on the wet bronze figures, re- 
deeming their squat ugliness. The memorial seemed to 
Torquil very British in its conception of art tempered by 
utility, made to withstand time and weather. He started; 
the door had opened. 

A minute later, his heart leaden, he was walking away 
from the house. He had been prepared to hear she was out, 
but “out of town” was another matter, less easy to remedy. 
He had asked for the date of her return. It seemed to him 
that the manservant’s face had become both reproving and 


THE FLAME 


193. 


malicious in replying that it was “uncertain.” A horrible 
word, Torquil decided. Aimless, he reached Piccadilly. 
Then he suddenly thought of the Considines. Nan might 
have later news. He returned his steps to Chesham Street. 

Lady Mary was at home. He followed the old butler up 
the dingy staircase into the room suggesting a stud-farm for 
chairs. His hostess was dispensing tea to a small circle of 
visitors; four middle-aged ladies, a stout priest and a thin 
old gentleman who drifted round handing a battered filigree 
dish containing some tired-looking cakes. There was no 
sign of Nan, or of any other youthful member of Lady 
Mary’s family. 

She greeted Torquil absently, gave him some tepid tea 
and introduced him to his neighbour as, obedient to her 
gesture, he gingerly took a chair. At least, she murmured 
the lady’s name. It was evident she had mislaid his own. 
The effect was null, for the lady smiled and immediately 
resumed a broken-off conversation with the suave and atten- 
tive priest. Torquil sat and balanced his tea-cup. 

A fresh caller was announced and absorbed into the 
little circle with friendly signs of interest. Torquil, exas- 
perated, caught the words “your book,” looked up and met 
the new-comer’s eye. The glance, intercepted by Lady 
Mary, seemed to awaken in her a sense of the young author’s 
isolation. She introduced the pair of men with a vague 
remark about Torquil’s writing, alluding to the latest arrival 
as “my cousin, Sir Desmond Freke.” 

So this was the famous diplomatist whose memoirs Mer- 
riman had published. Torquil grasped at the slender 
thread and explained that he only wrote novels. He found 
himself presently involved in a one-sided conversation re- 
garding the vices of publishers and the small chance an 
inexperienced author stood in their clutches. 

Sir Desmond, having seen his book at his clubs and 
conspicuously topping others on the tables of his intimate 
friends, was convinced of Machiavellian errors in the ac- 
counts sent in to him. 

Just look how the book had been reviewed? It has been 


194 


TORQUIL’S SUCCESS 

called the “success of the season” by a well-known literary 
journal. Then why didn’t it make money? 

Torquil, wisely, sympathized but withheld the obvious 
explanation of the narrow circle to whom it appealed and 
its prohibitive cost; also the fact that Merriman was his 
own publisher. He was getting rather bored by the great 
man’s laboured complaints when the door opened to admit 
another pair of elderly ladies, in their wake a son of the 
house, that youth whom Nan had called “Billy.” With a 
quick glance at the company, Billy slipped round to the 
back of his mother’s chair and watched her pour out a cold, 
straw-coloured mixture into an empty cup. 

“You want fresh tea, don’t you, Mum?” he suggested. 
“I’ll ring.” 

Torquil caught his eye and forestalled him. 

“Is this the bell?” 

Billy nodded. 

“Thanks.” A gleam of recognition appeared suddenly 
in his face. “How’re you? Nan’s away — down at Tal- 
garth,” he volunteered, placing the author as one of his 
sister's intimates. 

“With Miss Lyddon?” Torquil asked quickly. 

“Yes.” Billy drew nearer. “Having a top-hole time. 
I was there until Friday night. A jolly crowd, rehearsing 
all day for a show they’re getting up, and dancing all night. 
No end of sport.” 

“When is Miss Considine returning?” 

Billy’s brown eyes twinkled. 

“Lord knows! I expect she’ll stick on until Fiammetta 
comes back. Talgarth’s got leave — is expected to-day — so 
she turned most of us out. I never saw such a pair. More 
like lovers than brother and sister. She’s only keeping 
Nan on — and Lusignan, of course.” 

“Why ‘of course,’ ” thought Torquil. A stab of jealousy 
shot through him. He tried vainly to imitate Billy’s cheer- 
ful, inconsequent manner. 

“They’re not engaged, are they?” he asked, as lightly 
as his voice permitted. 


THE FLAME 


195 


“Not much! Pierrot’s married. Got a wife tucked away 
somewhere in la belle France. They don’t hit it off, I be- 
lieve. Anyhow, she bars England and gives her husband 
a free hand. He’s one of the fair Fiammetta’s fiddles.” 

Married? Torquil’s face cleared. Billy, relieved to find 
a man of his own age among what he called “the Sabbath 
crowd,” drew him slightly to one side and went on with 
his description of the doings at Talgarth Castle. 

“Ever been there?” 

“No,” said Torquil. “Though I know Miss Lyddon.” 

“And ‘the Sacrifice’?” Billy’s eyes twinkled. In Tor- 
quil’s came an answering gleam. He nodded, and Billy en- 
couraged, ran on: “Had a great rag the second night, at 
the poor old girl’s expense. Jake Trevelyan turned up 
unexpectedly. Know Jake? Tall chap in the Blues.” 

“By sight.” Torquil remembered the youth with the 
laughing face who had been Fiammetta’s partner when she 
danced at the Hyde Park Hotel. 

“Well, we kept it dark from Miss Bellace. One of the 
footmen had left and the man expected to fill his place 
failed at the last moment. We rigged up old Jake to wait 
at dinner. Pierrot did it — jolly clever! A wig and a few 
touches of paint, a perfect disguise in candle-light. He got 
through all right and ‘the Sacrifice’ had no suspicion until 
dessert, when Jake suddenly settled himself on the arm of 
Fiammetta’s chair, stretched out an arm, collared a peach 
and remarked cheerily : ‘D’you mind peeling this, old dear ?’ 
Tableau! The Sacrifice nearly fainted. Funniest thing I 
ever saw!” He chuckled. “There was old Clewer — the 
butler, who’s been there a hundred years — choking behind 
the screen, Jake, with an arm carelessly thrown round 
Fiammetta’s shoulders, and Miss Bellace, erect and trem- 
bling, demanding that he should ‘leave the room !’ ” He 
laughed again at the recollection. 

“Very amusing,” said Torquil with a rather forced smile. 
In his mind he could picture Fiammetta in close proximity 
to the young guardsman, cool and collected, enjoying the 
joke, Jake’s hand on her bare shoulder. 


196 


TORQUIL’S SUCCESS 

“Oh, that’s nothing” — Billy grinned — “to some of the 
rags we’ve had there. It’s a great place, is Talgarth, even 
with Jinks at Cologne. Fiammetta keeps things humming. 
Here’s the fresh tea. Like some?” 

Torquil declined. He had to go. He made his adieux 
and escaped, to brood over Billy’s disclosures. It wounded 
his vanity to think of the girl he loved out of his reach, 
amusing herself with other men. He felt lonely, outside it 
all. She lived in a different world, of confused principles 
and values, diametrically opposed to Torquil’s. His early 
mistrust of society and the class Lyddon typified — he clung 
to the old hated name — returned fourfold and warred with 
his passion. Did she love him? Or was it a mirage, built 
up by him from the shifting sands of passion and imagina- 
tion? Would she ever be content to settle down as his wife — 
the wife of a man of doubtful birth, with no tradition or 
fortune behind him? Would Lyddon, when he knew, per- 
mit it? For the first time Torquil realized all he was up 
against. 

Thank Heaven, Lyddon was safe in Wales, with no chance 
of meeting Torquil, face to face, in the London house. It 
had been a narrow shave. 

He shivered, aware of the drizzling rain and a chill in the 
evening air that added to his acute depression. If she 
loved him, if he were sure of that, no power on earth should 
separate them. And hadn’t she given him the proof in that 
unsolicited caress? Faith and hope stirred from their torpor 
and answered the spur of imagination. On the grey canvas 
of the streets rose scenes, vivid in line and colour; of 
Torquil defying Lyddon, tasting the sweets of revenge — 
Torquil, as famous in his calling as the old diplomatist 
left in that stuffy drawing-room. All hung on his success. 
Not only a literary, but a financial one. He thought of Ark- 
wright and his smile when he spoke of Merriman. Autres 
temps , autres mceurs. Arkwright would make his books 
pay. 


CHAPTER XVII 


J OSEPHINE was snipping off the heads of the over- 
blown roses in the bed on the south side of the lawn 
when she heard her husband’s unfailing signal, the 
distant note of the motor horn. Hurrying across the grass, 
she reached the house in time to see the car draw up at 
the door. 

Merriman got out heavily. Josephine’s first anxious 
glance noted the tired lines round his mouth and the weari- 
ness he strove to hide. 

“Well, my dear?” He stooped and kissed her. “I see 
you’ve had no rain here though in town we’ve indulged 
in thunderstorms.” He gave an order to the chauffeur 
and moved on through the hall. “I’ve brought news — both 
good and bad. The good first. I’ve let the house.” 

“No? How splendid! It’s really settled?” 

He nodded. 

“The lease was signed this morning. We’re country 
cousins. You look the part!” He smiled down into her 
sweet face under the cotton sun-bonnet that matched her 
lilac overall, from the big pocket of which protruded a loose 
strand of raffia. 

“I’ve been gardening.” She hesitated and added with 
assumed lightness, “And the bad news, darling?” 

He shrugged his shoulders and looked away. 

“I have to go up to town to-morrow.” 

“Must you? When you promised to rest!” Suddenly 
she guessed his evasion. “That’s not all. You’re hiding 
something ?” 

“It will keep. I’ll tell you after dinner. It’s nothing 
for you to worry about — just business. Take me round the 
garden first. That will blow away the cobwebs.” 

197 


198 


TORQUIL’S SUCCESS 

“In a second — I want a word with Matthews/’ She 
slipped away on her errand. 

When she returned she found her husband busy in the 
dining-room. He looked up guiltily. 

“I’m making a cock-tail, for the gardener ! To say noth- 
ing of myself. Here you are.” He handed the glass. 
“Is it all right ?” 

“It’s delicious.” 

“You’ve hardly tasted it,” he protested. 

“I spoke out of the fullness of faith!” 

He gave her a whimsical glance. 

“I only hope it’s justified. I begin to question my own 
judgment.” 

“Why?” Over the rim of her glass, she smiled at him 
as she drank. “Nothing wrong with this !” she laughed. 

“No.” He had followed her example. “I think I shall 
give up publishing and start an American bar in its place. 
More money in it!” 

“Do, and take me on as bar-maid.” She tucked a hand 
through his arm. “Now, come and see my Rayon d’Or — 
I’m really proud of my roses — or play Romeo to my 
Juliette.” She drew him out into the garden, across the 
grass to where her basket, with the sweetly-scented crushed 
petals, lay beside the long bed. “Look at that bud. Isn’t 
it perfect? And this ” 

He entered into her pleasure, following her as she moved 
on, exhibiting her favourite blooms, and feeling the peace 
of the quiet country lay tender fingers on his spirit. Al- 
though he was fond of flowers, he was not learned in gar- 
dening. This was Josephine’s department and of late she 
had taken an active share, cutting down all extra help — 
a secret economy. 

Merriman’s spirits began to revive. 

“Let’s have a look at the vegetables,” he suggested pres- 
ently. “They appeal to the baser side of me. Shall we 
have peas to-night?” 

“We shall. And our own new potatoes. Aren’t you glad 
you’re a country squire?” 


THE FLAME 


199 


“I am. Westwick’s our real home.” He drew a deep 
breath of the evening air. “I can smell the sweet-briar 
hedge. Yes, I love this place. I’ve never regretted the day 
you persuaded me to buy it.” 

“Did I?” Her face was pensive. 

He nodded, with a teasing smile. 

“Because there were five steps leading up to Sister Ann, 
and five was your lucky number. A woman’s reason — most 
conclusive !” 

“Well, wasn’t I right?” she retorted. “Haven’t we been 
lucky here?” 

“More than that.” He pressed her arm. “Luck comes 
and goes — is full of deceptions. Happiness is more stead- 
fast. We’ve lived here — enjoyed the moments. The 
best moments of my life. Thanks to you.” His voice 
softened. He watched her bend down, break a twig off 
a straggling bush and fasten it in his buttonhole. “What’s 
that ?” 

“Rosemary. For remembrance of our happy hours. A 
symbol of gratitude.” She saw his face cloud over. 

“Gratitude is out of fashion.” He started as a distant 
vibration reached his ear, and glanced at his watch. “Why, 
that must be the second gong.” 

“There wasn’t a first.” She looked mischievous. “I 
told Matthews to forget it. You looked so tired and I 
don’t believe in being a slave to convention. Certainly not 
in the country. In town, of course, you have to be smart, 
to interest your lady authors!” 

Merriman gave a chuckle. It was an old joke between 
them. * 

“Touche! How did you know that I gave Marion Cass 
lunch to-day? It was to celebrate the success of her last 
book. She’s coming on again finely.” He smiled. “It 
was rather funny, my dear. I took her to the Cafe Royal 
and Arkwright sat at the next table. Still” — his voice had 
hardened — “he scored in the end.” 

Josephine looked up quickly at the bitter note in the last 
words. 


200 


TORQUIL’S SUCCESS 

“How?” A sudden presentiment seized her. “Oh, 
Richard, not Torquil?” 

“You’ve guessed it.” He closed the door in the wall 
that cut off the kitchen garden. “But we won’t go into it 
now, old lady. I’m fed up with the whole affair. After 
dinner.” 

They moved on. Under her breath Josephine murmured : 
“It’s abominable!” and relapsed into silence. Her face 
was set. As they passed the seat in the sheltered bay by 
the drawing-room window, it evoked a memory of the 
night when she had sat there with Torquil and her early 
mistrust of her guest which later had given place to pity. 
She recalled a part of that moonlight confession in which 
he had spoken of his mother, left in ignorance of his exist- 
ence. In his resolution to cut adrift from the sordid sur- 
roundings of his childhood, he had never paused to con- 
sider her feelings, but had sacrificed her to his ambition. 
A climber — Heron had been right — accepting all and giving 
nothing, she thought with a growing indignation. That 
“something lacking” which Merriman, despite his respect 
for Torquil’s brains, had divined in his new author was 
human generosity. He grudged success in all around him 
and this spite lay at the root of his contempt for modern 
work and his pose as a lover of the classics. 

The scales were falling from her eyes. She thought of 
his swift, boastful allusion to the Considines and their 
“kindness.” He would use them and pass on, as he had 

used Josephine, mounting the social ladder until She 

gazed into the future. Would he overreach himself. What 
was it Heron had said? “A man so self-centred brings 
down on himself the wrath of the gods.” 

It was true. In the moment of disillusion and of anger 
on her husband’s behalf, she prayed that Torquil might 
learn the lesson that what a man sows he reaps, that even 
success might prove barren shorn of human sympathy. 

Little she guessed that, away in London, Torquil at this 
very moment sat at his upper window, tortured by the in- 
difference of the girl who had stirred his passion, watching 


THE FLAME 


201 


the light die out of the sky, emblematic of his hopes. That 
he knew now what it meant to wait for a sign to break the 
suspense — as his mother had waited these many years — his 
calls ignored, his letters unanswered. Fiammetta had for- 
gotten him. 

Had Josephine known, it would not have altered her 
merciless summing-up. Like many gentle, unselfish people 
there was a limit to her forbearance which, once passed, 
meant a definite rupture. Across the polished dinner-table 
she could measure the effect on Richard of this last un- 
expected blow which had followed so swiftly on Kerin’s 
death. Behind his attempt to be calm and cheerful, he was 
struggling with a sense of failure. He knew that he had 
been weak with Torquil, yielding to the young man’s charm 
in the early days of their acquaintance. He should have 
held out for a longer agreement. Friendship had tripped 
him up. 

All this he explained to his wife at dessert when the 
maid had left the room. He was glad at last to unburden 
his heart. 

“What makes me so wild is the way he did it. I see now 
he was out to quarrel.” Merriman frowned as he spoke. 
“He offered me the new book but made a point of its being 
published within a given period — far sooner than I ap- 
proved. I think he believed I should make an objection — 
we had already discussed the point — but I met him half- 
way, remembering your warning concerning his lunch with 
Arkwright. From this we passed to the question of terms. 
I was prepared to raise his present royalties but he asked 
for a big advance as well, a sum that was ridiculous. It 
would have meant a dead loss even if his sales had doubled. 
As a matter of fact I was out of pocket over Torquil’s first 
book and only made it up on the second. I explained all 
this and showed him the figures. Torquil took offence. 
He threw Arkwright in my teeth and the sums he paid his 
authors and hinted that I was old-fashioned. You could 
see he’d been well-primed. He quoted certain innovations 
which Arkwright employs as a lure.” Merriman sneered 


202 


TORQUIL’S SUCCESS 

and filled up his glass. “Well — to cut the story short — he 
wouldn’t listen to rhyme or reason. He’s not at his best in 
a temper. There’s bad blood somewhere.” 

Josephine smiled. Her eyes agreed with her husband, 
but her tongue was silent. 

“Eventually,” Merriman continued, “he flung out a defi- 
nite accusation. I had ‘neglected his interests’ in the matter 
of a fresh edition of The Self-made Man — for which, at 
present, I can see no justification. According to him, a 
case of ‘false economy.’ ” Merriman’s voice grew bitter. 
“He seems to forget that I advanced his fare to Les Lecques, 
where he stayed for six weeks, as my guest, without its 
costing him a penny. But, of course, I didn’t allude to 
that. It’s over. Torquil has left me. We parted — with- 
out shaking hands.” 

Josephine’s eyes flashed. 

“I think you’re well rid of him ! He’s treated you like he 
treated his parents.” She stopped dead, biting her lip. 
Even in her deep resentment, she would not betray a con- 
fidence. 

Merriman made no response. He was following out a 
train of thought. There was pain as well as annoyance on 
his heavily-lined face. 

“I shouldn’t care — not so much, at least — if I hadn’t 
been fond of the boy.” He said the words under his breath. 
“He told me he couldn’t feel tied down to more than two 
books — a nervous fancy — and I let him of! the third, a part 
of my original offer. I think he was fooling me then!” 
He laughed, but with a hollow sound. “Even now I respect 
his talent. He’ll succeed. Up to a certain point. Not 
beyond — not in Arkwright’s hands. Conceit is forgivable 
in youth, but as a man grows older it’s apt to undermine 
his reason. Arkwright’s a bad influence. He’ll flatter 
Torquil, snatch a profit and turn him down for a newer 
man. Well” — he drew a deep breath — “that’s Torquil’s con- 
cern. I’ve treated him generously — better than many of my 
authors — and he’s shown me his appreciation. Let’s go 
out to the garden?” 


THE FLAME 


203 


Later, as they watched the stars emerge from the deep 
blue of the night and cluster about the church spire, Merri- 
man gave a sudden chuckle. 

“What is it?” Josephine asked, delighted at this evi- 
dence of a happier mood. “Tell me the joke?” 

“I was thinking of a remark of TorquiPs, referring to 
his first two books. You know the way he throws back his 
head, sticks out his chin, and looks aggressive when he wants 
to impress his audience.” 

“Yes. Well?” 

She waited, amused. 

“Adopting that attitude” — Merriman’s old eyes twinkled 
— “he assured me that in ten years’ time, the rights which 
I hold in his early novels would be on a par with Stevenson’s. 
That’s something to console me!” 

“He didn't ?” She laughed, with open scorn. 

“Honour bright ! It will show you his opinion of him- 
self. The intention, of course, was to emphasize that I 
had profited throughout, secured his masterpieces cheap! 
Stevenson — good Lord!” He chuckled again. “I mustn’t 
forget to tell Heron. He’d enjoy it. Well, I’ve known a 
good many authors — they’re not modest as a class; they’re 
creatures of moods and impulses and they lead an unnat- 
ural life, poised between the world of fact and the clouds 
of imagination, at high pressure, engrossed in themselves — 
but I’ve never met one to beat Torquil! He’s the Napoleon 
of my collection.” 

“I’m thankful I’m not his Josephine!” The words 
slipped out thoughtlessly. 

“So am I !” 

Merriman laughed, but Josephine felt her colour deepen, 
and blessed the kindly darkness that screened the fact from 
her husband’s eyes. The incident of the mad shepherd 
had leaped up into her mind and Torquil’s accelerated de- 
parture. A faint dismay succeeded the thought. How had 
Torquil finished his book? What had become of the Jose- 
phine for whom she had been the unwilling model? She 
saw herself caricatured, yet still recognizable. She wished 


204 TORQUIL’S SUCCESS 

he had never crossed her path. Impulsively, she spoke 
aloud : 

“I hate him!” 

Merriman turned in surprise. Never in all their years 
together had he heard that vindictive ring in her voice. It 
was foreign to her gentle nature. 

“You needn’t. He’ll meet his Waterloo.” He slipped a 
hand through his wife’s arm. “Come, my dear, it’s time 
for bed and I can’t have you worrying. There are other 
authors besides Torquil. And he mayn’t last. You can 
never tell.” 

She nodded her head, ashamed of her outburst. 

“Yes. We’ll go in.” She rose from the seat. “Must 
you go up to town to-morrow?” 

“Afraid so. I’d planned to stay and do a little work at 
home, but Stebbins asked for a day off. His sister is to be 
married, it seems. He’s been kept pretty hard at work 
lately and I didn’t like to refuse his request.” 

“On a Friday?” She was superstitious. “Fancy choos- 
ing such a day.” 

“To tell you the truth, I thought of that.” Merriman 
smiled back at her. “I happened to see in the paper that 
there was a golf-match at his club — to do with the champion- 
ship. Perhaps it’s a case of a double event? Last year, his 
aunt died ! It reminds me of an inscription I once saw on 
a votive heart, hung above an altar in France, which for 
sentiment and economy combined can hardly be beaten. 
‘On the success of my examination and the death of my 
grandmother.’ ” 

Josephine laughed. As they reached the porch, Merriman 
asked her if she had seen anything of Heron lately. 

“Not since Wednesday. Why? Do you want him? I 
believe he’s going to town to-morrow.” 

“Is he? We could come back together and I could 
bring him home for dinner. If you’re agreeable?” 

“I’ll try to be! Shall I send him a note in the morn- 
ing?” 

“Yes, first thing. Then we’ll know.” 


THE FLAME 


205 


As they mounted the shallow staircase, Josephine noticed 
her husband pause half-way, to recover his laboured breath. 
He caught her anxious glance and smiled. 

“A touch of asthma — that's all! Must have something 
at my age.” 

But his cheerfulness did not deceive her. He looked like 
a man who had suffered a shock; but she put down his 
changed appearance to the stormy interview with Torquil. 

She warned Heron in her note next morning to say 
nothing about his fellow-author, giving him the facts of the 
case briefly, in confidence. She could trust to her friend’s 
discretion and she watched her husband off with the feeling 
that he was in good hands, Heron, already fetched in the 
car, chaffing him over a new necktie. 

“Try and come back by the early train?” she urged, 
waving from the porch. 

“I’ll bring him,” shouted Heron, as they turned the cor- 
ner into the lane. 

Josephine felt comforted. The sun shone ; dappled clouds 
drifted slowly across the sky and the earth had the deli- 
cious freshness that follows a heavy dew. All along the 
herbaceous border the bees were at work, and butterflies, 
in idle contrast, skimmed the flowers. Reluctantly she 
turned back to the house and settled down to her accounts 
and her secret effort to keep down expenses without cur- 
tailing Richard’s enjoyment. 

In the afternoon, £lise claimed her to try on a cotton 
frock. The maid was in a silent mood and her face had the 
sallow tinge that presaged a bilious attack. Josephine was 
very gentle, aware of this tendency in the Brittany woman’s 
constitution and its effect upon her temper. 

She praised the simple gown and added: 

“You look as if you hadn’t slept. You’d better lie down 
for an hour or two.” 

But £lise scorned the suggestion. It was nothing. 
Thunder, perhaps, in the air. A restlessness — did not 
Madame feel it? She pressed her hands to her temples. 
As Madame knew, she suffered at times from a migraine. 


206 


TORQUIL’S SUCCESS 

Impossible to avoid it, but it did not interfere with her 
work! Up went her dark head with its sleek well-dressed 
hair. That — jamais! No one could say she gave in. It 
was not her habit. She darted a swift look at her mistress, 
touchy, longing for sympathy in her faithful soul, yet by 
her manner, suggesting that it would be an insult. 

Josephine, nonplussed, fell back on the weather. 

“Yes, I think we shall have a storm. Mr. Heron is 
coming to dinner. What shall I wear, jfilise?” 

The dark face relaxed slightly. £lise enjoyed being con- 
sulted but her pride was still in the ascendant. Madame 
“knew best what suited her.” 

Josephine repressed a sigh. 

“My old black tea-gown then. Quite good enough if 
we sit in the garden.” 

She was amazed by the effect of this casual suggestion. 
The maid, folding the cotton dress on the bed, swung round, 
her hands clasped; a torrent of French poured from her 
lips. It was difficult to follow the outburst. Black? Mon 
Dieu, if Madame chose black, that was the end of every- 
thing! With a dream concerning a crocodile which, as 
every one knew, foretold disaster, and the pain in her head, 
who could wonder that her nerves were agaces? If Madame 
had no confidence in Flise, there was that pink-faced house- 
maid who would, sans doute, serve Madame better — and 
steal the lawn handkerchiefs ! After ten years’ loyal service ! 
To be treated like this? Juste del! She gathered up her 
crumpled work, deaf to Josephine’s remonstrance. 

“Non, non! C’est fini! I take myself off! But Madame 
will remember I warned her. And to lock up the new 
camisoles.” 

Josephine laid a hand on her arm. 

“£lise? Don’t add to my troubles. I’m so dreadfully 
worried about your master.” 

The woman gulped, her passionate eyes meeting the 
steady grey ones, her hysterical temper almost spent. 

“If Madame still finds me of use ?” She brought 

it out with a sob. 


THE FLAME 


207 


Suddenly Josephine remembered that she had praised 
the housemaid that morning. This crise was due to jealousy ; 
the bitter flower whose root is love. All the years of loyal 
service rose up before her. Impulsively she stooped and 
kissed that ravaged face. 

“Why, I couldn’t get on without you,” she cried. 

The next moment two bony arms came round her con- 
vulsively. Then Llise stepped back, appeased and repentant, 
the tears running down her cheeks. 

Madame must pardon her. She had thought of late — 
but no matter! And then the dream, which had upset her. 
And a sense of oppression, of trouble coming. It arose, 
doubtless, from “V estomac” ? Some camomile tea would 
put it right. And Madame would wear? 

“Whatever you like !” Josephine smiled. “Til dress 
now and get it over. Then you’re to go and lie down. I 
can tell you have a splitting headache.” 

filise, reluctantly, obeyed. 

Sitting in the little pavilion, on the look-out for the car, 
Josephine pondered upon the mystery surrounding love. 
She had never known the dark side of that passionate 
possession which touches the boundary line of hate: the 
torture of jealousy to which the Latin race is subject. She 
felt weary, a little shaken, not only by the scene but by 
the maid’s reiteration of her superstitious fears. Thank 
Heaven, David was now with Richard, bringing him home 
to the country peace. 

From the trees overhanging the lane came the crooning 
note of a pigeon, then the clear call of a thrush, followed by 
the hushed silence that waits on the setting sun. A bat, 
still blinded by the light, swooped down so close to the open- 
ing that Josephine recoiled, startled, and caught its faint 
twittering cry. She stood there, looking up the road under 
the cool, green arch of boughs. Was that the distant throb 
of the car? She held her breath, listening. If so, when it 
reached the brow of the hill, Richard would sound the 
horn. 

“Is anyone coming, Sister Ann?” she murmured, amused 


208 


TORQUIL’S SUCCESS 

at her own folly. Far away, a sudden flash, the last gleam 
of the setting sun on bright metal rewarded her, with the 
vibration of the engine, and she leaned out eagerly. Where 
was the familiar signal? 

Now she could see the car. She frowned, perplexed, for 
behind the chauffeur sat Heron, alone. Where was Richard ? 
Her heart tightened; a sudden fear shot through her. On 
Heron’s face was no welcoming smile, though his eyes 
strained towards Sister Ann. Before the car could slacken 
speed, she called to him anxiously : 

“David ! Where’s Richard ?” 

“I’ll explain.” He jumped out as the chauffeur applied 
the brake. “Let me in through the side door.” He turned 
to the man as she vanished. “Not a word to anyone at 
present. Remember, Morris?” 

“Very good, sir. I’ll be round at the garage, ready.” 
The servant drove on, hastily, as his mistress appeared in 
the doorway, fearing to meet her eyes. 

Heron drew her inside and closed the door before he 
spoke. 

“Richard is not very well — not quite up to travelling. 
I thought I’d come back and tell you, so that if you felt 
anxious about him we could go up by the 9.15.” He tried 
to smile, but his lips twisted. 

Josephine made no response. He waited, prepared for 
anything but this strange silence on her part. 

She came a step nearer to Heron, her grey eyes searching 
his. 

“He’s dead.” Her voice was dull and calm. “You’re 
only trying to break it to me.” 

“My dear ” He laid a hand on her arm and paused. 

What was the use of pretence? It would only prolong the 
agony. She would have to know, and since she had guessed 

it He nodded. “Quite peacefully. He didn’t suffer. 

Thank God 1” 

She saw him gulp and the Adam’s apple in his throat 
jerk up and down. It roused in her a strange wonder. 
Richard’s never did that. But Richard was dead? Sud- 


THE FLAME 


209 


denly, through her stunned senses, the shaft sped. He was 
gone — for ever! Her stay in life; the rock on which she 
had built her citadel of boundless trust. 

“Davidl” Her frozen calm broke up. The next mo- 
ment she was sobbing, his steadying arm around her shoul- 
der, her face pressed to his rough coat sleeve. 

He could find no futile words of comfort. He stood, 
staring into space over that bowed, beloved head, resolute 
in his control, in his final loyalty to the dead. Thank God 
she could cry like that — it was safer than her earlier mood 
— and that he had reached Westwick before that fatal tele- 
gram, despatched in panic from the office. He had saved 
her the initial shock. Resolutely he kept his thoughts on 
practical contingencies. At last, still shaken, she raised her 
head, to find a big handkerchief thrust into her trembling 
fingers. 

“It’s quite clean,” said Heron simply. 

“Tell me — everything, please?” With an effort, she 
choked back her sobs. “Truthfully?” In her wet eyes, 
he read a shadow of suspicion, the result of her strained 
nerves. 

“Of course. Besides, there’s nothing to hide. He was 
talking to the manager when he suddenly leaned back in his 
chair, gave a little gasp — and he was gone! The doctor, 
whom they fetched at once, said that nothing could have 
saved him. It was heart failure — instantaneous.” 

She nodded her head, wiping her eyes. 

“I believe he knew, last night.” Suddenly her shoulders 
stiffened. “Torquil did it. The final blow, on the top of 
Kerin’s death. Oh, why couldn't he have waited?” The 
cry rang out bitterly. “Torquil — the failure — he couldn’t 
bear it. Richard didn’t want to live !” 

“You’re wrong.” Heron spoke quickly. She had begun 
to sob again. He took her cold hands in his. “Listen to 
me for a moment, my dear. I didn’t mean to tell you yet, 
but perhaps it may help a little. I suggested myself as a 
substitute for Torquil. That is — I’m putting it badly — I 
offered Richard my new book as we went up in the train 


210 


TORQUIL’S SUCCESS 

this morning. I’d been thinking of it for some time. I've 
had trouble with my agent and I’m not bound in any way. 
I g-guessed” — he stammered — “it might please him. To 
have my work in the future. It — seemed to.” He stopped 
dead, startled by Josephine’s expression. 

She was hanging on his words ; the stars in her eyes 
shone through her tears. 

“You did this? Because of Torquil. Of what I told 
you in my letter?” 

“Not altogether. I’d several reasons.” He lied badly, 
avoiding her gaze. “It was just a coincidence and ” 

She interrupted his laboured speech. 

“He didn’t guess you knew about Torquil?” 

“Of course not. Why should he?” All the inherent 
modesty of the man’s fine, unspoilt nature rang out in his 
concluding words. “As I say, that altered nothing. Why, 
I wasn’t even sure if he’d care to have me back.” 

The hands in his suddenly tightened. He heard her 
whisper “God bless you !” 


CHAPTER XVIII 


T HE first tidings of Merriman’s death reached Torquil 
through the Sunday papers. The shock swept away 
his rancour and he felt an acute regret for his own 
precipitate action. He might have spared the dead man. 
Then the insidious thought followed that had he delayed 
matters he would have lost a potent lever in securing good 
terms from Arkwright. Yet his conscience pricked him. 
He thought of Les Lecques, of Merriman’s early kindness 
to him, and of Josephine, now a widow. 

A widow? Torquil frowned. In a sudden flash he saw 
himself stretched beneath the walls of Beaucaire above the 
swirling flood of the Rhone, watching a bough of almond 
blossom carried, helpless, on the current. Amazing to think 
that he had suffered, lying there, from the fact that Jose- 
phine was another man’s wife! Only a few short months 
ago. He shrank from the obvious conclusion that man was 
a changeable animal and he no better than his fellows. 

He told himself that experience of the world was broad- 
ening his outlook, enhancing the value he set on life. Jose- 
phine belonged to the past, to the days of doubt and poverty 
surrounding an unknown author, when her kindness had 
been a consolation. Fiammetta was rarely kind, but if he 
won her she would be the seal of the world set on his 
success. If? Everything hung on that word. 

To-day he was in an arrogant mood, full of keen health 
and confidence. He had slept well, risen late and dressed 
himself with unusual care. The hot weather suited him. 
His eyes looked clear and his olive skin was warmed by the 
rich stir of his blood. He had a swift presentiment that the 
sunny day belonged to him, was lucky, and found him at his 
best. He was filled with a sense of life’s adventure. 

The mood carried him into the Park on the chance of a 
211 


212 


TORQUIL’S SUCCESS 

meeting with Fiammetta. As he moved up with the crowd, 
scanning the packed rows of chairs, he caught a distant 
glimpse of Nan and made his way to her side. 

“Hullo, Torquil!” She laughed at him from under a 
shady hat that looked as if it were tired of the season and 
sympathized with her crushed frock. “Know Jake, don’t 
you?” She glanced from him to her companion. “Move 
up, Jake, and make room for Torquil. That’s right. What 
a hot chair!” 

Trevelyan laughed. 

“Sorry! Will you change places with me?” 

“No, I’ll bear it.” Nan sighed. “I’m in a heavenly 
mood, aren’t I? Listening to you drivelling on about 
Fiammetta’s illness.” She paused, and added impatiently, 
“All the same, I wish she’d buck up! We can’t postpone 
that show for ever.” 

“Is Miss Lyddon ill?” Torquil’s face gave him away. 

Nan chuckled. 

“Another of them? Oh, ye gods! Why wasn’t I born 
red-headed? Here’s Jake prowling about Park Lane with 
wilting roses all day long, and Pierrot full of strange oaths. 
And they all come to me for the latest news and expect me 
to sympathize ! I would, if she were really ill, but it’s only 
been slight influenza and she’s tons better now. The Sac- 
rifice is such a fuss-pot and, for once, Fiammetta seems to 
like it. Shuts herself up and refuses callers. That's not the 
way to get well.” 

“It’s a jolly nasty thing,” said Jake. “I had it in the 
trenches — this new sort — and I can tell you I very nearly 
pegged out. Didn’t care a hang what happened.” 

Torquil drank in the news. Here was the simple ex- 
planation of Fiammetta’s prolonged silence. Illness excused 
everything. His spirits rose at the thought and he smiled. 

Nan glanced at him wickedly. 

“Better? Cheer up, Torquil. ‘No flowers, by request.’ ” 
Her eyes swept past him and she glowered from under the 
faded hat. “If that Ferriby woman comes here, sit tight, 
both of you. Here she is, with her wretched doglet.” A 


THE FLAME 


213 


tall woman, very well dressed with a tiny Yorkshire under 
her arm was making her way towards the trio. Nan whis- 
pered to Torquil, “If you give up your chair, I’ll never 
forgive you. She’s marked down Jake.” The next moment 
Mrs. Ferriby had paused before them. “How do you do?” 
Nan said coolly, “Beastly hot, isn’t it?” 

“It is warm.” In the drawling voice was a shadow of 
correction. Mrs. Ferriby disdained slang. “Oh, how do 
you do, Mr. Trevelyan?” 

The unhappy victim made a movement to rise, but Nan 
deliberately interposed : 

“Sorry there’s no room here, Myra. How’s Prink?” She 
put out a finger and touched the dog’s silky head. 

“Alas !” Mrs. Ferriby sighed. “Prink is no more. This 
is Blink.” 

“Another?” Nan looked disgusted. “Poor little chap!” 
For the wistful eyes that gleamed under the fine hair, 
bunched up and tied with a ribbon, had filled her with a 
sudden pity. “I don’t believe you feed them, Myra.” 

Mrs. Ferriby looked plaintive. 

“I do — don’t I, my precious?” She fussed over the tiny 
creature and raised her eyes to Trevelyan’s face. “I’m very 
unlucky with my pets.” 

“Perhaps you feed them too well ?” he suggested. 

“The brutal truth is,” said Nan, “that when they don’t 
go with the latest dress they’re doomed. Isn’t that a fact?” 
She grinned up at Mrs. Ferriby provokingly. “Removed 
from a luxurious muff, they peter out in a maid’s cold bed- 
room. The moral of which is: Never become a lady’s 
pet!” Her elbow which was touching Jake’s emphasized 
the remark. 

“You’re very unkind. I shan’t stop.” Mrs. Ferriby 
looked mournful. It suited her dark, languid style, and she 
often adopted a tragic pose. Yet she lingered and glanced 
at Torquil. “Didn’t I meet you with Miss Lyddon one 
day at Ranelagh?” 

The author, in turn, made a movement to rise, but Nan 
laid a hand on his arm. 


214 


TORQUIL’S SUCCESS 

“No good, Myra!” She laughed outright. “You’re not 
going to sneak his chair. We had enough trouble to find 
these. There’s Major Dace with one to spare in that row 
in front. Go and console ^him. Nothing like firmness,” 
she added to Torquil as the tall woman moved away with a 
curious Eastern swing of her hips. “I loathe her! She’s 
like a snake. I really believe she eats those dogs ! Anyhow, 
I frightened her off.” She turned to Trevelyan. “Say 
‘thank you ?’ ” 

“Thank you, darling.” 

Nan laughed. 

“A pity she didn’t hear that. Look, she’s got hold of 
the Puffin! He’s pleased, too, all his toes turned out. 
He’ll ask her to lunch now. Funny how she gets fed. 
Never entertains herself — can’t give you a cup of tea — but 
goes about looking superior and criticizing her friends’ 
parties. Came to a dance we had last year and told Mum 
that the band was rotten. Cheek! I said, ‘You must go 
one better.’ But she didn’t rise to the hint. What’s the 
hour?” 

Torquil told her. 

“Lunch.” She stood up and shook out her skirts with a 
rueful look at them. “About time I had influenza! I’m 
getting to the end of my clothes.” 

“You’re all right,” said Trevelyan. 

Torquil saw the blood rush up under Nan’s brown skin 
but she only mocked. 

“Thanks, darling!” 

“So I vote you come on with me to Prince’s,” Jake con- 
tinued. “That suit you?” 

For a moment Nan hesitated. 

“All right. I’ll talk Fiammetta!” She laughed with a 
touch of malice. Jake shrugged his broad shoulders. 

“And you?” he said pleasantly to Torquil. 

The author wisely refused to play gooseberry to the pair, 
pleading an earlier engagement. He parted from them at 
Hyde Park Corner and turned off up the Row. His thoughts 
swung back to Fiammetta; not the glowing creature of 


THE FLAME 


215 


their drive, but delicate, with a wistful beauty. The fancy 
appealed to him. He would lose his secret fear of her, his 
dread of her mischievous intuition. He rejoiced at the 
thought of his lady enclosed, her door shut to her admirers ; 
those men with their easy manners, careless speech, and 
sure knowledge of the world in which she lived. If only 
he could see her now, alone, in the weakness of depression. 
Surely his own vitality would quicken the spark of desire, 
dormant since the day she had danced? He would put it 
to the test and believe in the instinct that had led him for 
the first time to Church Parade, into that peacock crowd he 
despised. That Ferriby woman now, with her sensuous 
walk, roving eyes, and her air of aloof ^peculation ? Greedy, 
brainless and critical, without passion — so he judged her — 
yet trading on the weakness of men. Beside her Nan, 
acquisitive, eager for pleasure, seemed strangely clean. 
Just a hungry schoolboy, out for adventure Yet at one 
time she had shocked him. Odd how his opinion changed. 
And worrying, on account of his work. As a hermit, his 
outlook on life had been free from these perilous fluctua- 
tions. He had seen it, far off, as a whole, with no fine 
shades of virtue and vice; an honest line drawn between 
them. Class, too, distinct from class. The misery of the 
working poor in a desperate struggle to escape the clutch 
of the capitalist, and the luxury of the idle rich in the 
vicious circle of their pleasures. Now, confusion had crept 
in. In his squalid lodgings in Pimlico it was easy to sym- 
pathize with the former, but in Fiammetta’s strange house he 
was haunted by a doubt of his condemnation of the latter. 
Was he wavering in his principles, or merely growing more 
broad-minded? A pretty girl with blue-green eyes gave 
him a swift glance, in passing, that was a tribute to his 
manhood, and Torquil dismissed the problem, caught anew 
in the toils of his passion. For the eyes were the colour of 
Fiammetta’s. To-day would decide his fate. 

He felt strangely sure of this. So sure that when, four 
hours later, he stood on her doorstep, denied admittance, 
he refused to accept the servant’s mandate. 


216 


TORQUIL’S SUCCESS 

“I know she’s been ill, but I think she’ll see me. If 
you’ll take in my name — Torquil.” He brought it out 
with such assurance that the man hesitated, and at this 
moment the luck in which he so firmly believed turned 
the balance of the scales. For down the stairs came a 
rustling figure in black silk with a tight waist and a Roy- 
alty fringe, crowned by a toque ; the Sacrifice in her Sunday 
best. 

She peered out short-sightedly, seeing the young man 
on the threshold. Torquil pressed hurriedly forward, past 
the annoyed footman. 

“Oh, Miss Bellace ! How are you ?” His hand shot out 
and captured hers — caught it in fact as a drowning man 
grasps at a passing spar. He ventured a discreet pressure. 
“I’ve called to inquire for Miss Lyddon. Is she better? 
Do you think she’d see me?” He smiled down from his 
great height into the chaperon’s foolish face. 

“Why, it’s you ” she fluttered. “I couldn’t tell — against 
the light. Do come in. Yes, my poor darling, she’s been 
so ill, but she seems to be on the mend now. Only so 
dreadfully depressed. I really hardly like to leave her. 
Though I’ve promised this afternoon to go to tea with a 

cousin who is only in town for the week-end. I wonder ” 

She gazed at Torquil. 

“Don’t wonder. Just let me go and sit with her until 
you return?” With an effort he controlled his voice, but 
behind the words, lightly spoken, was the full driving- 
power of his will. He could feel Miss Bellace wavering. 
“I’ll cheer her up! I understand. You see, I’ve had in- 
fluenza myself. Badly — I know what it means. You could 
be perfectly happy about her, and I’m sure you need a 
change. Nursing is anxious work.” 

“It is.” She drank in his sympathy. What a very good- 
looking young man he was. And thoughtful. . . . 

He saw he had won the day. The footman had vanished, 
with the conclusion that if anyone were to be blamed in 
the matter it should be Miss Bellace. Torquil glanced up 
the stairs. 


THE FLAME 217 

“It’s the first door on the right, isn’t it?” he asked gaily. 
“I know my way.” 

“On the left,” she corrected, forgetting that she was fac- 
ing him. “I don’t know, I’m sure. She might be vexed. 
Perhaps I’d better ask her first?” 

“No, you’ll be late,” said Torquil quickly. “I’ll make 
it all right — take all the blame! You leave it to me.” He 
was off, smiling. “Don’t you worry. Have a good time.” 
To his relief she acquiesced. As he reached the corner and 
turned to wave, he saw her, with an air of decision, gather 
up her black sunshade, lying on the hall table. Her high 
heels pattered across the squares of black and white marble. 
He was rid of her. Thank God ! A wild excitement drove 
him forward. “First door on the left,” he repeated, reach- 
ing the broad landing. “This must be it.” He turned the 
handle and, his heart thumping against his ribs, walked 
boldly into the room. 

At once his sense of colour warned him of his mistake. 
Instead of a riot of red, he was conscious of the peacock 
shade that seemed to belong to Fiammetta; of white fur 
rugs on a parquet floor and a great, gold bed with a satin 
cover embroidered heavily with dragons. They writhed, 
green and blue, and, across them, was the body of a girl, 
flung face downwards, arms outstretched in an abandon- 
ment of grief; motionless, save for a quiver that ran over 
the slender shoulders at intervals when she caught her 
breath. 

Torquil stood, turned to stone, his eyes fixed on the 
great bed, with its gilded wicker work and carved supports 
held up by Cupids. He could see that her hands were 
clenched. On one was the turquoise scarab, though her 
dress to-day was violet-coloured. Details had ceased to 
count with her. The thought struck him painfully. 

Fiammetta seemed unaware of his presence. Presently, 
she twisted sideways and a low cry broke from her lips. 

“What shall I do? Oh, what shall I do? My God!” 
Then, with a sob, “Jinks!” 

The single word snapped the spell that held Torquil. 


218 


TORQUIL’S SUCCESS 

It was Lyddon then, who had brought this misery upon 
her. Lyddon — curse him! He moved forward. 

“Fiammetta ?” 

She turned with a violent movement and sat upright. 
Her wet eyes were wide with horror. There were purple 
shadows under them; not a vestige of colour in her lips. 
For a moment she stared wildly at Torquil, then her mouth 
twisted. 

“ You! ” She relaxed, leaning limply against the pillows. 

“Yes.” He knelt beside the bed. “Tell me what’s wrong? 
Ah, don’t cry!” For her hands had gone up over her 
face and he saw the quick rise and fall of her bosom. His 
words poured out incoherently. “You must tell me ! Please , 
Fiammetta? You can trust me, can’t you? You know I 
love you — that I’d die to save you any pain — that you’re 
everything in the world to me. That — I don’t expect you 
to love me. Only a little — just as much as when you 
kissed me. Yes, I knew. I’ve lived on the memory ever 
since. And you wouldn’t have done it — you, so proud — 
unless you felt — unless you cared . . . something. And I 
can make you care more, if only you’ll trust me, my darling? 
Fiammetta /” His face went down, burning, against her 
knees. 

He felt her draw away from his touch, but he dared not 
look up. Above the beat of the blood pulsing in his ears 
he heard her voice, faintly amused: 

“Are you asking me to marry you, Torquil?” 

His intense fear of her mockery brought him suddenly to 
his feet. 

“Why not?” His voice was vexed and husky. 

“No.” She seemed to consider the point. She drew up 
her feet under her and clasped her knees with her hands. 
A tear still hung on her long lashes and she shook it off 
impatiently. “Why not?” she said as if to herself. Her 
glance ran slowly over Torquil, a cool look that seemed to 
measure him in this new amazing light. She smiled faintly. 
“So you think yourself in love with me?” 

“I don’t think” — he scowled — “I know it.” 


THE FLAME 


219 


“Since when?” 

“Since I stood one night, two years ago, outside your 
door and watched you pass to your car. Like a torch that 
flamed through the dark, red sparks about your feet.” 

“Really?” She looked interested. “Two years ago?” 
Across her face went a sudden sharp spasm of pain. She 
held out her hand to him. “Let's talk it over quietly, Tor- 
quil. Sit down — yes, on the green dragon. I never cared 
for that one. If I married you, would you let me go my 
own way in everything? I couldn’t feel bound. I love 
my freedom.” 

“You mean it?” His strained eyes sought hers. 

“Wait ! I’ve not decided yet.” She looked past him across 
the room to an exquisite sea-piece that hung on the wall ; 
of great green waves rolling in on to a sun-bathed strip 
of sand. “I suppose I shall have to get married — some 
day. So why not now? It’s a solution.” She did not 
attempt to explain the word but her gaze came back to the 
man beside her. “I’m tired, Torquil.” Her lips quivered. 
“I want to get out of all this. Away from this room and 
every one. Especially that green dragon!” She smiled 
with such infinite weariness that he felt a lump rise in 
his throat. “Miles away — somewhere abroad. If I’m shut 
up here any longer with the Sacrifice, I shall cut my throat.” 

“I don’t wonder !” He nodded grimly. 

The hand that lay in his tightened. 

“You’re rather a dear sometimes, Torquil.” 

He leaned nearer. She shook her head. 

“Not yet. I want you to think first. It isn’t a marriage 
made in heaven — just an earthly compromise. You mustn’t 
indulge in wild dreams. No 'love, honour and obey.’ But 
I think you and I could be good friends.” She read the 
sudden fear in his eyes and smiled. “Oh, I’m not going 
to cheat you, Torquil. That sort of thing’s all right in 
novels, but it never succeeds in real life. Only, I must be 
alone sometimes. You, too — with your writing. We must 
both feel free.” She withdrew her hand. A faint colour 
swept into her lips. “To me it’s the essence of existence. 


220 


TORQUIL’S SUCCESS 

I should stifle in a prison. And marriage is that to many 
women. To lose one’s personality — become a man’s slave 
and mistress.” She passed a hand over her eyes, shud- 
dered and fell back. “It’s nothing.” Her voice sounded 
faint. “It will pass. I’m not — strong yet.” 

He hung over her anxiously, then glanced round the 
room in search of some restorative. But after a moment she 
straightened herself. 

“Well?” She looked at him curiously. “Do you agree to 
my stipulation?” 

“That you shall be free? Need you ask? I would 

agree to anything — if ” His voice broke. “You love 

me ?” 

Silently her lips shaped “No.” 

“But you will?” 

Her expression puzzled him. 

“How can I tell? What is love?” 

“I’ll teach you.” Man’s eternal boast. 

Fiammetta only smiled. 

“Then we’ll be married next week.” 

“What?” He stared at her, aghast. 

A low laugh broke from her lips. 

“You’re not a very ardent lover! I’ve known men 
pleased with less.” 

“It’s not that.” He was suddenly wordless. How could 
he explain to her that he lived from day to day, went short 
of a meal when money failed him or a cheque for a story 
was overdue? 

In the class from which he had sprung, an engagement 
was a serious matter that frequently ran into years, whilst 
the man saw to his finances. Did she believe that he pos- 
sessed a private income? He shrank from the thought of 
placing money before romance. How should he tell her? 
How explain? In his urgent need a verse rose up from its 
hiding-place in his author’s brain. He remembered her 
love for De La Mare’s poem. 

“Listen!” He held her attention now. Sea-green grew 


THE FLAME 221 

her wonderful eyes, like the waves in the picture, as he 
quoted Yeats* haunting lines: 

“Had I the heavens’ embroidered cloths 
Enwrought with golden and silver light, 

The blue and the dim and the dark cloths 
Of night and light and the half-light, 

I would spread the cloths under your feet. 

But I, being poor , have only my dreams. 

I have spread my dreams under your feet. 

Tread softly, because you tread on my dreams.’’ 

A light dawned in her face. 

“ 'Being poor* ? Is that the trouble ? Why, I never think 
of money! Don’t let’s even talk of it. We’re artists and 
we’ll share, Torquil. You bring me all your golden words 
and I will supply baser coinage! A great man, you shall 

bring me your fame; I ” She stopped and her eyes 

fell. “I give you myself — such as I am! It’s a risk, Tor- 
quil. You’re blinded by passion, but I see clear. Never 
say, in the years to come, that I didn’t warn you.” Her 
voice faltered. Her hands were pressed in a sudden nerv- 
ousness to her heart. Then she was caught up in his arms. 
With his mouth on hers he felt her shiver. In his folly he 
believed her his. 








PART III 


THE VACANT COURTS 











CHAPTER XIX 


T ORQUIL stood at an upper window of the little 
house in Park Lane, gazing across at the bare 
branches of the trees opposite. It was his second 
winter there, yet he did not feel it to be his “home,” the vis- 
ible result of success. That old dream of boyish days had 
long since lost its magic. He smiled with a touch of scorn, 
his eyes fixed on the far pathway beyond the open Park 
gates. He could see himself standing there, looking up at 
these very windows, lost in visions of the future. The little 
house — a great author. . . . 

Well, in a sense, he had succeeded. His sales testified to 
this. Yet, at moments, he felt a mistrust of his growing 
popularity. Although his work was more fluent it lacked 
the deep sincerity of his earlier and rougher attempts. And 
the house was Fiammetta’s. 

He would never have admitted it, but his position was 
akin to that of “the Sacrifice” in the early days of their 
acquaintance. He stood for conventional law and order, 
inwardly powerless to check his wife in one of her wild 
caprices. She was free, but he was bound; his money a 
mere drop in the ocean, his authority nil, his work her 
plausible excuse for evading his society. 

In the eyes of the world their amazing marriage — with 
the sudden bomb-shell of the announcement on the day 
they started together for Norway — had proved a somewhat 
piquant success. Fiammetta was charming to Torquil in 
public, proud of his books — with a secret touch of mockery 
that galled his spirit — lavish in all concerning money. But 
under it lay indifference. He had never possessed her in 
the spirit; she moved on a different plane. Even in that 

225 


226 TORQUIL’S SUCCESS 

first wonderful month of wandering by the blue fiords, she 
had acquiesced in his passion but met it with no answering 
fire. Torquil, bewildered, had blamed himself. In his 
ignorance of her sex, he saw in his wife’s attitude the 
shrinking chastity of a girl swept too swiftly into marriage. 
He would teach her to love him, study her moods; above 
all, control himself. Surely, in turn, she would be grateful? 

It seemed to him that he was succeeding when his castle 
of dreams was demolished by the tragic news of her brother’s 
death; the result of an accident in a regimental steeple- 
chase, with the Army of Occupation. Fiammetta’s grief was 
terrible. He would never forget that homeward journey; 
her frozen face, night and day, and one wild scene of anger 
when she had turned on Torquil and shown her secret 
contempt for him and his futile consolations. It seemed to 
him that some hidden link between the devoted brother and 
sister had been a factor in her marriage and that now 
Fiammetta regretted it. There were depths in her he could 
not fathom. She was more than ever a mystery, unattain- 
able, yet his by law. He suffered, nursing his vanity. 

Grief did not bring them together ; another vanished illu- 
sion. But as the weeks passed on and she drooped in the 
August heat, burdened with all the legal business connected 
with Lord Talgarth’s death, she. was forced to make use 
of Torquil, and this broke the strain between them. The 
town mansion went with the title to a distant cousin, and 
this involved the search for a fresh abode. It was Torquil 
who, through an agent, learnt that his dream house was 
for sale. His sense of romance stirred from its slumber, 
and he accepted the sign as an augury of happier days. 
But no sooner were they settled in than a fresh disaster 
struck at his hopes. For Fiammetta was taken ill. There 
were hours of suspense, of doctor’s visits and the presence 
of silent nurses. A shadow of mystery and pain hung 
over the little white house. He had never felt so unwanted, 
so hopelessly inadequate. He drifted about, scared and 
helpless, forbidden his wife’s room, too full of nervous 
tension to work. 


THE VACANT COURTS 


227 


To his anxious questioning, the family doctor, pompous 
and vague, would murmur — as if he addressed a child be- 
reft of all reasoning power — a series of formulas. 

“A thorough breakdown. Overstrain. The shock of 
Lord Talgarth’s death — and another little complication. 
Perfect rest is required.” His eyes would narrow, studying 
the perplexed face of the young husband. “In a day or 
two, you’ll be able to see her. But, even then, no conversa- 
tion.” 

Torquil, baffled, would go back to that room on the second 
floor fitted up as his study, with his dressing-room leading 
out of it, where he slept, an unwilling exile. Fiammetta 
had arranged it with beautiful pieces of furniture that 
had once belonged to Lord Talgarth. The thought exas- 
perated Torquil but he dared not go against her wishes or 
betray his secret hate of the dead. The climax had been 
reached with the gift of a William and Mary bureau that 
had graced her brother’s rooms at Cambridge. 

“You’ll be able to work here,” she had said with uncon- 
scious irony, her hands caressing the fine old wood, the 
tears not far from her beautiful eyes. “Jinks worked.” 

He could find no reply. But he kept the bureau locked, 
and wrote at his table, pushed up to the window. 

The floor beneath was Fiammetta’s. Her bedroom was 
at the back of the house, separated from the drawing-room 
by a pair of sliding doors. In it was the great gold bed, to 
which she had clung (after buying another), the white rugs 
and violet hangings (she was tired of peacock-blue), crystal 
ware, and, instead of the sea-piece, a cloudy, heather-covered 
moor. He had found her gazing across at this when he 
tiptoed in, the nurse on guard, for a first peep at the invalid. 

He was shocked by the change in her. Even her hair had 
lost its lustre. The great plaits hung heavily on either side 
of her white face, sunk wearily in the pillows. She looked at 
him with a nervous dread in the depths of her shadowed 
eyes. 

“Better?” He spoke huskily. She made a faint move- 
ment of assent. “I’ve not been allowed in before.” He 


228 


TORQUIL’S SUCCESS 

stooped and kissed the hand that lay like a pale flower on 
the violet quilt. “But I’ve been worrying, frightfully.” 

“You mustn’t.” Even her voice was brittle, without its 
old resonance. 

“Then you’ll try and get well?” 

She smiled faintly. 

“Yes.” With an effort she raised her head. “I’m sorry.” 
Her lips trembled. 

“Why? You can’t help it.” He kissed her cheek, con- 
strained in the presence of the nurse. “I wish I could 
have spared you this.” 

“You?” There was mystery in the look she gave him; 
faint amusement, relief. Then her face clouded over. “I’m 
tired. Thank you for all your flowers.” 

The nurse signed to him to go. But he went out in a 
happier mood. It would all come right. He had only to 
wait. 

That was two years ago. Now he stood by his writing- 
table, with a cynical smile, recalling the scene. With the 
recovery of her health, as Time worked its accustomed spell 
and softened the poignancy of her loss, her old love of life 
returned. She emerged, like a golden butterfly that stirs its 
new wings in the sunshine. Marriage had been an inci- 
dent ; though Torquil remained as a solid proof of that hur- 
ried ceremony, with Nan and Jake for witnesses, in the 
background Miss Bellace, weeping — but wearing a knot of 
white heather! Torquil “didn’t count” — to use her set’s 
vernacular — except as a host in emergencies, or to play his 
part at a formal function. Every one understood that an 
author was much tied by his work. Fiammetta laid stress 
on this. She had no lack of cavaliers. 

She was kind to him in her own fashion. After a period 
of neglect, she would bring him home some costly present: 
sleeve-links designed by an artist, or a rare book from a sale 
at Christie’s. She was more popular than ever. The house 
was full from morning to night. Drifts of laughter and of 
music would steal up to Torquil’s floor where he sat trying 
to concentrate his wandering thoughts on his writing. It was 


THE VACANT COURTS 


229 


like working in a fair to the clamour of the merry-go-rounds 
and the noisy mirth of the crowd. Even his early hours 
were broken. Fiammetta would have her bath, breakfast 
in bed and write her letters, the folding doors opened wide 
to catch a vista of the Park through the windows of the 
drawing-room, and be at home to her girl friends. They 
would drift in from their ride or walk, for advice or gossip, 
and form a group about the great gold bed, assisting at the 
petit lever. With all his soul Torquil resented this invasion 
of her privacy. If any one had the right to be there whilst 
she brushed and coiled her wonderful hair, it was Fiam- 
metta’s husband ; not these merry, adoring girls, quarrel- 
ling who should fasten her skirt, or loop up her long silk 
stockings. She was married; she belonged to him. Their 
presence shut him off from her. Yet his hands were tied. 
The house was hers. He had promised to respect her free- 
dom. There were times when he almost hated her, followed 
by hours of loneliness and acute physical depression. 

He was worried, too, over his business. Arkwright had 
changed his attitude of flattering familiarity to that of 
watchful criticism. A slight falling off in sales had been 
due — so the publisher pointed out — to the last book’s “sad 
ending.” Torquil’s aggressive retort that the climax was 
true to life, the “inevitable conclusion,” produced no effect 
on Arkwright. Sad endings didn’t pay. They might be 
artistic, but nowadays a publisher couldn’t take risks. Tor- 
quil must remember his public. Tragedy had been over- 
done during the years of the war. He hinted that through 
the author’s marriage and the circle of his wife’s friends 
he could find fresh copy and write — well, not exactly a 
chronique scandaleuse, but a clever, risque society novel. 
There was money in it, if well done. Society folk would 
recognize the principal characters, or declare that they did — 
same thing ! That would make the book sell. It was a safe 
draw, too, with the lower middle-classes, who were begin- 
ning to buy novels. Nothing they enjoyed more than a 
dig at the aristocracy; its luxury and its vices. Torquil 
would have to be careful to steer clear of any libel. Though, 


230 


TORQUIL’S SUCCESS 

even then, it might be worth it, for the sake of gratuitous 
press advertisement. “Anyhow, think it over,” he con- 
cluded cheerfully. 

“I’ll be damned if I do!” Torquil exploded. His head 
went back, his chin thrust forward. “If you’re not satis- 
fied with my work, I can take it elsewhere.” 

“M’yes.” Arkwright looked vicious. “I doubt if you’d 
get such good terms — not after the last book. It wasn’t 
very well reviewed. I’m speaking for your own good and 
I don’t think you’ve much cause for complaint in the way 
I’ve handled your work — since you fell out with Merriman. 
But as you don’t care for advice, I shan’t say anything more. 
Still it’s struck me that in your present position, living in 
Park Lane, in the public eye, so to speak, it must be diffi- 
cult to preach — well, democracy, communal rights and so 
forth. That’s why I suggested a change.” He smiled, for 
Torquil had winced. Deliberately Arkwright had placed his 
finger on the raw spot. “Mind, I don’t blame you. Opin- 
ions alter, and you deserve to get on in the world. You’ll 
make a big name for yourself if you go steady with your 
public. And in the end you’ll be its master — write anything 
you damn well please!” He laughed and became friendly 
again. “By the way, I’d like your opinion on a manu- 
script that’s just come in. If you care to read it, I’ll 
send it along? With a cheque.” 

Torquil accepted the olive branch unwillingly and went 
home thoughtful. The truth of the criticism rankled. He 
could not pose as a reformer and live as a Sybarite. He 
had realized thia for the past year, and the book on which 
he was now engaged showed symptoms of a fresh departure 
— though not along Arkwright’s lines. Still, it breathed of 
the new world round the author. 

But he did not feel at home in.it. He was still an out- 
sider and, although his perception was acute and there was 
“copy to burn” about him, he could not enter into the 
moods and inherited instincts of the class from which he 
drew his characters. They did not ring true, for all his 


THE VACANT COURTS 231 

labour, as the hero did in The Self-made Man, and in The 
Shepherd on the Heights. 

Only in moments of depression, haunted by this bitter 
doubt, would his self-assurance fail him. These were times 
when he laid down his pen and wished himself back in the 
bare room of his Chelsea lodging-house ; with the littered 
table that needed a wad of paper beneath one uncertain 
leg, and the distant, monotonous drone of the steam crane, 
that friend of man. There, life seemed all before him, 
streaming out towards success. Whilst here, in the house 
of his dreams, he was a prisoner, chained to his folly; he 
lived in a trance, with no past and no future. The tempta- 
tion would seize him to steal out into the dark and disappear, 
regain his poverty and freedom ; but his passion for his wife 
held him. He could not live without her now. Without 
the touch of her satin skin, the scent of her hair, the mys- 
tery of her green -blue mocking eyes. 

In her rare moments of weariness she would turn to him 
like a child to be petted and consoled, unconsciously absorb- 
ing his strength. Then for a few reckless hours he would 
be his old arrogant self and boast of his successful work, his 
assured position as an author. She would listen, smiling, 
inscrutable. 

Oddly enough, Arkwright amused her. She was always 
absorbed by a new type that appealed to her sense of 
humour. His genial vulgarity, assumption of literary dis- 
tinction — “All the best authors come to me,” was the way 
he summed it up — and open reverence for a title brought 
her well-concealed mirth. 

“When he goes to the nether regions — as he certainly 
will,” she told Torquil, “he’ll edit Hell's Landed Gentry. 
That will bring him in touch with the right people. If you 
ever have any trouble with him, let me know. I’ll arrange 
a little dinner-party.” 

But Torquil shrank from the suggestion. It wounded 
his author’s pride. It was his work, not Fiammetta’s. He 
did not wish his path smoothed by the fact of having 


232 


TORQUIL’S SUCCESS 

married above him. Arkwright had already made the most 
of the romantic adventure through paragraphs in social 
columns — the titles of Torquil’s books appended. The prox- 
imity of A Self-made Man to “the Honourable Fiammetta” 
had more than once made Torquil writhe. He had mar- 
ried for love, but the world might take a different view 
considering his wife’s birth and ample fortune. Besides, she 
had nothing to do with his novels. They could stand on 
their own merit. But even the death of Lord Talgarth had 
been used by the shrewd publisher in connection with the 

young author — “whose last book was now in its N th 

edition.” 

To be helped in any way by Lyddon? The manifest 
irony of the gods. Instead of the subtle revenge he had 
planned over the enemy of his youth, Torquil found him- 
self involved in a grotesque parade of mourning, aware 
that a single lapse of respect would for ever alienate his 
wife. Talgarth had died without the knowledge that the 
man who had suddenly married his sister was an old 
college associate. The surname was a common one and 
Fiammetta had called him “Torquil” in her letters to. her 
brother, explaining that he was a rising author whom she 
had met at the Considines. It was near enough to the 
truth to soothe Jinks’s apprehensions. There was nothing 
to stir from its slumber memories in the young soldier of 
a friendship ending in disillusion. 

Although, in his saner hours, he realized his escape from 
unpleasant complications, Torquil regretted his lost chance 
of humiliating the man who had scorned him. Lyddon’s 
eyes would search his own out of the big framed photo- 
graph on the mantelpiece facing the gilded bed as he lay 
by Fiammetta’s side. Torquil would turn off the light 
quickly to escape from that silent scrutiny and the features 
so like his wife’s, virile, yet nobler in expression. That 
clean-cut, smiling mouth, disdaining the lies of an impostor. 
God, how he hated the man ! Both living and dead, he had 
come between Torquil and his desire. For he could not 
rid himself of the impression that Jinks had played an 


THE VACANT COURTS 


233 


unconscious part in his own amazing marriage and that, 
with his death, Fiammetta had nursed a grudge against her 
husband. Yet she was his for those few hours between 
the darkness and the dawn. It roused in him a cruelty that 
is ever the haunting shadow of passion. Not that she 
seemed to resent his moods. She accepted him as her hus- 
band; calmly, incuriously. She had never once questioned 
him on his origin or place of birth, viewing with indif- 
ference his apparent lack of relations. He had served some 
mysterious caprice or purpose, and with the fresh day she 
would dismiss him and take up her self-centred life; that 
of a queen, with a court of admirers obedient to her whim 
and pleasure. That was the real Fiammetta. The leader 
in every social fashion, drinking success from a golden cup. 

Somewhere in the house below a door opened, and the 
sound of voices and laughter penetrated to Torquil’s ears, 
as he stood frowning by the window. It roused him from 
his brooding thoughts. He shrugged his shoulders wearily, 
sat down at his table and proceeded to fill his fountain pen. 
His hand shook and the ink spirted on to the open manu- 
script he had been reading for Arkwright. He wiped it off 
negligently — another man’s work ! Poor stuff, too. Written 
by an amateur with a title — hence Arkwright’s interest. He 
felt a malicious touch of pleasure in meditating on his report. 
His cynical mood would find relief in a few damnatory 
phrases ; terse, subtle and humorous. But as he tapped his 
replenished pen on his thumb nail he heard a knock at the 
door behind him, and turned, startled. 

“Come in!” Who could it be at this hour? 

A laughing voice answered the question : 

“It’s me — Nan! D’you mind the dog?” 

“No. What dog?” He was on his feet as the door 
opened and in swung Miss Considine at the end of a leash, 
preceded by an Irish terrier. 

“I had to come up.” She was breathless. “Fiammetta 
said you were working, but I risked it. I wanted to tell 
you my news.” 


CHAPTER XX 


“TT doesn’t bite!” Nan sat down in the chair Torquil 
| offered her and set the straining animal free. “Just 
you live up to that, Tatters! Only sniffing,” she 
explained as the terrier growled about Torquil’s legs. “Says 
a lot, but means nothing. In the usual ‘society way.’ Ah, 
I got that in first, this time!” She laughed, her white teeth 
lending to her brown face the clean look of youth allied 
to health and high spirits. “There!” Tatters had settled 
down, satisfied with his surroundings. “Isn’t he a perfect 
lamb? I’m taking care of him. For Jake.” 

Torquil nodded. 

“So that’s the news?” The drop in her voice had en- 
lightened him ; her shyness in uttering the name. It seemed 
strange to find it in Nan and he felt a curious touch of 
envy. So, in the old days, had he murmured ‘Fiammetta.’ 
He forced a smile. “Since when?” 

“Yesterday. Tatters did it. A dog-fight.” She laughed 
again, aware of her absurdity. “A homeric battle! We 
got them apart, at last, but Jake thought I was bitten. And 
— well, he was rather an old dear and so we patched it up 
between us.” 

“And you’re happy?” Torquil’s face was wistful. 

She nodded, colouring under his scrutiny. 

“I thought I’d run up and tell you, because, in a way, I 
owe it to you. Of course, Jake ” She hesitated. 

“Was fond of my wife,” said Torquil dryly, “and I re- 
moved the temptation.” 

“Oh, it was only on his side,” Nan naively explained. 
“All the same, it’s a rotten thing for a man to be keen on a 
girl who doesn’t care twopence for him.” Torquil winced, 
unperceived by the speaker. “I shan’t forget the day you 

234 


THE VACANT COURTS 


235 


were married. I had an awful time with Jake after we’d 
seen you off in the train.” She looked blankly past Torquil. 
“He asked me to marry him.” 

“Well, wasn't that ” He checked himself. “But per- 

haps you weren't fond of him then?” 

'Wasn't I!” Nan’s head went back. She straightened 
her slim shoulders in the neat tailor-made, well-brushed but 
showing signs of wear. “That’s all you know! I’ve al- 
ways — liked him. But I wasn’t going to catch a man on the 
rebound like that. It’s not the way to happiness. Besides, 
I’m proud. I didn’t see myself exactly as a — substitute! 
Now it’s really me he wants.” Her honesty flared out in 
the ungrammatical conclusion. In some hidden fashion, it 
shamed Torquil. 

“But you might have lost him,” he suggested, following 
up his train of conjecture, and comparing it to his own 
case. 

“I couldn’t help that.” She crossed her feet and looked 
down at her brogued shoes. “Don’t you understand, Tor- 
quil? I thought, somehow, that you would.” 

“I do. You were right.” His voice was bitter. “You 
wanted respect as well as love — or what men call love. I 

sometimes wonder ” He broke off. In the silence 

that followed, they could hear music in the room below; 
the firm touch, that is rarely deceptive, of masculine fingers 
on the key-board. “Who’s down there?” he asked abruptly. 

“Pierrot. With Mrs. Ferriby. And Audrey Letts — poor 
old Audrey! Fancy living with the Puffin?” Nan gave a 
little shiver. 

“Lusignan?” Torquil frowned. “I thought he was safe 
at Warsaw — at the Legation there?” The “safe” slipped 
out, unperceived by him. 

“So he was, but he’s home again. Wangled it somehow. 
Fed up with the fair Poles!” She laughed, then suddenly 
sobered down. Love had sharpened her perceptions. “I 
shouldn’t worry about Pierrot. He’s an old habit, that’s 
all! But — Torquil?” She leaned forward. “We’ve been 
good pals, you and I. May I speak honestly?” 


236 


TORQUIL’S SUCCESS 

“Do. I’d enjoy some naked truths!” 

“Oh, well, if it comes to that you’ve only to go to the 
Opera and cast your eyes round the boxes.” Nan twinkled 
shamelessly. “Still, it might teach you to be a Cave man 
and you’d learn to manage Fiammetta.” He frowned but 
she went on doggedly, “If you don’t, it will lead to disaster.' 
I’m fond of her — you know that? But I’m not blind to 
her faults. She thinks she can do anything — just because 
she’s Fiammetta! If only you’d put your foot down.” 

“In what way?” His voice was weary. 

“Well, there’s this Ferriby woman, for instance. She’s 
always after Fiammetta, and she’s got a frightfully bad 
name. She’s a friend of that Lady Halsby, and Carden 
Voyse — you know whom I mean? It’s not good enough, 
Torquil. If I were you, I’d forbid her the house. It’s 
your house.” 

“No, it isn’t.” The confession was wrung from him. 
“I’m only the male caretaker” — he sneered — “keeping an 
eye on the plate ! Even the furniture’s Fiammetta’s. What 
can I do? I’m powerless. I’m beginning to make money, 
but not enough to buy my freedom.” 

Nan sprang up impulsively. 

“Don’t! You’re not to talk like that.” She laid a hand 
on his shoulder and gave it a little shake. “I won’t let 
you. It’s hateful, Torquil. You seem to forget that she 
chose you, out of a score of other men, for yourself .” 

“Did she?” asked Torquil. “Then you know more than 
I do, Nan.” 

“I do. You’re a perfect baby still. I can’t think where 
you’ve spent your life, to learn so little — and yet so much ! 
All your wisdom goes into your books. I suppose that’s the 
truth?” She frowned, impatient. “You place dreams be- 
fore action. And Fiammetta’s much too clever, too strong 
a character, to have any sympathy with weakness. That’s 
where Pierrot understands her; he never lets her master 
him. It’s the secret of their friendship.” She leaned down 
and patted the dog who had stirred, aware of her raised 
voice. “You understand, don’t you. Tatters? You wouldn’t 


THE VACANT COURTS 237 

be so fond of Jake if he let you run blindly into danger.” 

“You think I do that?” Torquil scowled. 

“Do you try and prevent it?” Nan retorted. “I know 
Fiammetta’s difficult. Still, you’re married to her.” She 
paused and darted a glance at his troubled face. “She ought 
to come before your writing.” 

“She does. That’s why my work suffers.” The pain 
rang out in the words. 

Echo seemed to answer it. For, from below, rose a 
baritone voice with a throb of passionate feeling in it : Pier- 
rot singing to Fiammetta. It ceased and was followed by 
a series of chords that swept down the piano with the effect 
of a triumph both of skill and of supple strength. 

“I can’t think how you can write here,” Nan exclaimed 
impulsively. “I’d go down and turn them out !” 

“Would you?” Torquil shook his head. “To be an 
object of ridicule? Who cares about my writing?” 

“To be a man ” said Nan stoutly, “and hold your own 
against a crowd of people who prey on Fiammetta. She’s 
paying Mrs. Ferriby’s bills. I shan’t tell you how I know 
it, but I do. I know Myra, too. We went to the same 
convent, until” — she paused — “she was turned out.” 

“Expelled?” Torquil was roused in earnest. 

“ 'Removed by her parents,’ it was called.” Nan had 
turned away from him and was gazing out of the low win- 
dow. “Jolly the Park looks from here. I’d love a house 
like this, but Jinks is keen on the country. We’ve got to 
make a home for Tatters, and country air’s best for the 
child!” She wheeled round. “So long, Torquil. Cheeri-oh! 
It’s a kind old world, taking it all in all, and full of decent 
men and women — though one sometimes runs across a rot- 
ter. Like myself! A candid friend. Have I put my foot 
in it ?” 

“Never.” He studied her curiously. He had rarely 
thought her pretty before, but to-day there was a myste- 
rious glow, more spiritual than physical, on her clear- 
skinned, mischievous face. She had come into her woman’s 
kingdom. “Tell Jake he’s a lucky man.” 


238 


TORQUIL’S SUCCESS 

“Rather ! I’ll rub it in.” 

She fastened the fur round her neck and pulled down 
her tweed coat; then dived into a deep pocket, and out 
came her powder-puff. Torquil watched her smother her 
nose. 

“That all right?” she asked her host. 

“A little too much,” he suggested gravely. 

“Oh, well, it will soon blow off. I’m taking Tatters across 
the Park, for the sake of his figure.” She held out her 
hand. “I shall see you at Audrey’s dance?” 

“I’m not sure. Fiammetta’s going.” 

“Exactly. You ought to be sure.” 

She had reached the door. He opened it and their eyes 
met in a brief exchange of question and answer. Torquil 
gave way. 

“All right. I’ll come. Just to see you with old Jake, 
docile, on a string.” 

“He isn’t!” she flashed back. Then her mood changed. 
“Good boy! I liked that last book of yours, though the 
end of it was rather a sell. Why couldn’t you let them be 
happy, poor dears, after all they’d gone through?” 

“It wouldn’t have been true to life.” Torquil looked 
obstinate. 

“No? All the same, one felt cheated. I still love your 
Self-made Man best. You remember — the book you signed 
for me?” 

“Do you? Why?” His eyes narrowed. He was think- 
ing of Arkwright’s criticisms. 

“I can’t say.” She was puzzled. 

“The happy ending?” Torquil suggested. 

“Not only that. It was the story. Just the way things 
do happen.” 

“Real?” 

She nodded, her foot on the stairs. 

“And the man deserved to succeed. No, don’t come down 
I can let myself out and I hate being made a visitor. Go 
back to your work.” She was off, a shortened grip on the 


THE VACANT COURTS 239 

leash, as the dog leaped from stair to stair. “Steady, 
Tatters! You’ll break your neck.” 

Torquil went back into his room. He sat down at his 
table but his thoughts wandered from his report. 

Nan, his Tarascon friend, engaged. The girl he had 
despised as shallow; not content with a spurious conquest, 
patient, insisting on genuine love. Would he ever under- 
stand women ? He had known so few intimately. Suddenly, 
out of the mists of the past, Josephine’s face rose before 
him, tender, compassionate, the stars shining in her eyes. 
Real. That was it. Real as the hero of that early effort, 
A Self-made Man. Had he, like the dog in the fable, 
spurned the substance to grasp the shadow ? He wondered 
what had become of the woman who had once held his 
heart; then, with an author’s egoism, of her verdict on the 
finished romance written round the sapphire sea and the 
heights where the mad shepherd piped. 

There was something alluring and pathetic in the memory 
of those days ; of a love that asked for no return and spurned 
the thought of possession. An artist’s dream. He went to 
his shelf to take down the book that held the Josephine of 
his ideals, of his chivalrous instincts and youthful despair. 
It was gone; a gap in the precious row. 

Then he remembered. Fiammetta had borrowed the 
copy to lend to her friend, Mrs. Ferriby, who had lost it. 
A first edition ; long since out of print, and precious to his 
author’s soul, like the first shoes of a baby which a mother 
places among her treasures. He thought of her careless 
apology. Damn the woman! It was a theft. A woman 
like that, too — he scowled. He would have it out with 
Fiammetta. Nan was right. He should be the master. 
He would rule his wife and earn her respect. 

He lunched alone. Fiammetta was out — in the car, so 
the servant informed him. But at four o’clock she came in, 
radiant and full of life, in a new moleskin coat, an absurd 
cap of monkey fur wedged down on her shining hair. In 
Torquil’s present mood her beauty seemed a subtle insult. 


240 


TORQUIL’S SUCCESS 

To his nervous fancy it carried with it the suggestion of 
some fresh conquest that she flaunted in his face. About 
her was the mysterious glow he had sensed in Nan, the 
subtle and exquisite fulfilment of her womanhood. He 
looked at her curiously. 

‘‘Hullo!” She was surprised to find him at this hour 
in the drawing-room. “What a big fire ! It’s hot in here.” 
She unfastened her furs. “Had a good morning’s work, 
Torquil?” 

He ignored the polite inquiry. 

“I didn’t know you were out to lunch. Where have you 
been ?” 

Her eyes widened. A certain aloofness came over her. 
She slipped her arms out of the flame-coloured lining and 
threw the coat across a chair. 

“You might open one of those windows?” 

He moved unwillingly to obey her. 

“Thanks. I’ve people coming to tea, and it’s really not 
cold to-day.” She glanced at his sombre face and moved 
on towards her bedroom. “I must change.” It was evi- 
dent there would be no answer to his question. 

Torquil intercepted her passage. 

“I want to talk to you.” 

“Now ?” She frowned. “Then you’ll have to do it whilst 
I’m dressing. I’ve only just time as it is. Can’t it wait 
until this evening?” 

“I thought you were dining out with the Lettses and 
going to a theatre?” 

“So I am.” She shrugged her shoulders. “Very well.” 

He followed her into the room beyond, and sat down 
sideways on a chair that faced her littered writing-table. 
On the blotter was a musical score, unfinished, her com- 
position. Latterly she had wearied of dancing and gone 
back to her earlier love. Torquil glanced at it furtively. 
He found it difficult to begin his carefully planned con- 
versation. 

Fiammetta was slipping out of her dress with the amazing 
celerity she employed over major details of her toilet, though 


THE VACANT COURTS 


241 


she would stand for minutes together deciding on the choice 
of a ring. She seemed to have forgotten his presence. Ab- 
sorbed, she leaned towards the glass and examined a tiny 
flaw on the creamy curve of her chin. She powdered the 
place lightly, opened a narrow, antique box of ivory inlaid 
with gold that held a mirror in the lid, and selected a small 
black patch. Moistening it, she dabbed it down over the 
condemned spot. Then, with a swift movement she turned 
to the washing-stand, filled the crystal basin, lathered and 
rinsed her hands, and dipped them into a wooden bowl 
holding a home-made paste of almonds. With the same 
absorbed attention, she rubbed in the fragrant compound, 
dried the slender, pink-tipped fingers, and started briskly 
to polish her nails. 

Torquil hardened his heart. Not for her husband’s ad- 
miration did she perform these sacred rites. 

“Fiammetta ?” 

She gave a start. 

“Oh, I’d forgotten! What is it, Torquil?” 

“I want you to listen to me,” he began. 

“One minute!” She opened the wardrobe, chose a frock 
of biscuit-coloured taffeta, shook it out, and stepped 
into it, drawing it up round her supple hips. “Now?” 
She smiled in his direction, her fingers busy with the 
hooks. 

Torquil remembered his opening phrase. 

“I’m going to ask you to look back carefully over the 
last two years, recalling the promise I made you when we 
became engaged.” He stopped dead ; Fiammetta was laugh- 
ing. 

“My dear boy, why this harangue? It sounds like the 
letters that are read in a case of restitution of conjugal 
rights. You’re not thinking of leaving me, are you?” 

He gave an impatient movement and his elbow caught 
the page of music, which shot out on to the parquet. As he 
picked it up he saw that it was a song, the music by his 
wife, the words by — Carden Voyse! He thrust out the 
manuscript to her. 


242 


TORQUIL’S SUCCESS 

“You know this man?” His voice shook. 

“Certainly.” She was perfectly calm. 

“Well, it’s the limit!” said Torquil. 

Fiammetta drew from its case a long string of pink coral, 
held it against the folds of her dress, then fastened the clasp 
behind her neck. 

“I don’t follow the connexion. What has Carden Voyse 
to do with the inventory you wish me to take — carefully — 
of the last two years?” 

“Just this” — he would not be turned from his purpose 
by her light mockery — “that I’ve kept my word and you 
haven’t. I’ve given you the freedom you claimed, but I 
never agreed to stand by and see you drag my name in the 
dust. You’re my wife and I’ve certain rights.” 

“And you take them, don’t you?” Over her shoulder 
she flung him a curious glance. “I don’t think you’ve much 
cause for complaint. You’re surely not jealous of this 
poet ?” 

“I’m jealous of your reputation.” He clung to his point 
desperately. 

Her expression changed. She seemed to be thinking. 
Even her actions were arrested. With a sapphire ring half- 
way to her finger, her beautiful neck in a downward curve 
as her eyes studied the dark stone, she waited for his next 
words. In her utter immobility there was a secret sugges- 
tion of fear; but Torquil, possessed by anger, was blinded 
to fine shades. He controlled his voice with an effort. 

“You must know what people say about Mrs. Ferriby 
and her set?” 

“Myra ?” She looked up quickly. “So that’s the trouble !” 
Her face had cleared. She smiled with a genuine touch 
of amusement. Torquil watched her, amazed and indig- 
nant. “I’m not particularly keen on her. She’s clever, but” 
— she shrugged her shoulders — “she’s one of those women 
who looks on friendship as a monopoly. And that doesn’t 
suit me. Still, I’m sorry for her. She has a struggle 
to face the present hard conditions. As to Carden Voyse, 
I know what you mean, but I’m not concerned with his 


THE VACANT COURTS 


243 


decadent fancies — only his verse. It’s the hardest thing 
in the world to find words that lend themselves to decent 
music. His saving grace — poor little worm! It should 
count to him for righteousness.” She slipped her feet as 
she spoke into a pair of bronze slippers with little straps 
above the instep. She held out the button-hook to Tor- 
quil. “Fasten these — there’s a good man! I can’t stoop in 
this skirt.” 

He hesitated, taken aback, not only by her speech but 
her action. She drew nearer. The faint scent of her hair, 
that always brought to him unforgettable memories, reached 
his resistant senses. 

“You want me to drop Mrs. Ferriby?” She looked 
gravely into his eyes. “I see your point. Perhaps you’re 
right. Anyhow, I’ll play fair.” 

“You’re serious?” He caught at her hand and through 
some mischievous trick of hers found himself — holding the 
button-hook ! 

“I am — if you’ll hurry up!” A sound of steps on the 
stairs outside and the closing of the drawing-room door had 
warned her of the guests’ arrival. 

“Fiammetta?” His heart was in his voice. 

A sudden pity flashed up in her eyes. 

“Yes, I’ll play fair.” She stooped and kissed him. 

He knelt down and buttoned her shoes. 


CHAPTER XXI 


T HEY went to Monte Carlo early in the New Year; 
a party of six that included the Puffin and Audrey ; 
Audrey’s young sister — known as the “Compleat 
Minx” — and “another man,” an uncertain factor up to the 
last moment when Pierrot nobly filled the breach. 

It was a very different journey to the one Torquil had 
taken before in a crowded second-class carriage on his way 
to Les Lecques. The Puffin oozed money; moreover, liked 
his money’s worth. One of his favourite maxims was : 
“I don’t ask for luxury but I do like simple comfort.” 
Torquil, for ever after, connected the phrase with cham- 
pagne. 

He would never forget his first sight of the jewelled 
town on the blue waters where Nature throws her fairest 
cloak over man’s pleasure strained to excess; his vice, 
despair, and vain triumphs. Alone, he would have revelled 
in the exquisite natural surroundings, ignoring the lure of 
the casino; for gambling had no charm for him and it 
hurt him to lose money. But his new vow, to protect 
Fiammetta, chained him to the feverish rounds of Riviera 
gaities; the ponderous friendship of the Puffin, strutting 
proudly between two women who drew admiration from 
every quarter, and the mischief of the Compleat Minx, 
setting her cap at Lusignan. 

In Letts he saw the antithesis of his own case. The man 
who paid, was blandly content with the possession of a well- 
bred, beautiful wife, courteous but indifferent to him, and 
whose outlook was bounded by the material spoils of his 
existence. 

Fiammetta and Audrey gambled continuously, but the 
244 


THE VACANT COURTS 


245 


Puffin only at intervals, late at night and for high stakes. 
He had a passion for motoring and the day they arrived he 
chartered a large and luxurious touring car. 

“It’s air I want,” he told Torquil, “not those stuffy 
Rooms from morning to night. All right for the ladies, who 
can show off their Paris gowns. Me for the open road.” 

In this they found a point in common, but the author 
modified his opinion after the first few drives. For Letts 
insisted on driving himself and his main preoccupation was 
speed. Short-sighted to the verge of blindness, and hazy 
about the rule of the road, he would scorch along the 
Corniche with a reckless disregard for danger, indifferent 
to the scenery. Torquil, sitting by his side, would hear 
him murmur cheerfully, “If you go to the right, you’re 
wrong — no, that’s England ” when round the next dazzling 
bend an approaching car flashed in the sunshine, and see 
to the left a precipitous cliff, to the right the edge of the 
road, unguarded, with a sheer drop to the rocks and the sea. 
There would follow moments of tense suspense and the 
danger would begin again. 

Torquil dreaded these expeditions, which spoilt his enjoy- 
ment of the country, blurred by the pace at which they 
drove, leaving a cloud of white dust behind them. Plow 
different had been those peaceful excursions with Josephine 
three years ago. Now the days passed in a whirl of excite- 
ment, lunches at the various villas, concerts, dances, dinners, 
gambling, Fiammetta feted wherever she went, Torquil 
politely “included.” It seemed to him that at Monte Carlo 
no one had ever heard of his books, though the Puffin’s 
claim to distinction as the “Guano King” was met with 
respect. Even the Compleat Minx laid siege to her brother- 
in-law’s affections — to be financed at the tables ! 

One crystalline, sunny morning Torquil took a holiday, 
his polite excuse a headache and the need for a breathing 
space in which to think of the new book, half- written and 
hopelessly shelved. The remainder of the party were motor- 
ing over to San Remo. He wandered up to La Turbie, 
where he lunched at a little inn and fraternized with an 


246 


TORQUIL’S SUCCESS 

English artist, who had dropped in for a cup of coffee. 
After the gay crowd below and the feverish inconsequence 
of Fiammetta’s social friends, he found this shabby, casual 
acquaintance, with his rambling talk and silences, a refresh- 
ing companion. He learned that the artist had a room in 
La Turbie where he could live cheaply, until, his series of 
sketches complete, he would descend upon Monte Carlo 
for a week at one of the big hotels and exhibit his work in 
the lounge for sale. The proprietor, reducing his terms, 
would take a commission on the proceeds which enabled 
the artist to wander on to another beauty spot, living from 
day to day, happy and improvident, with spells of work 
and of idleness. 

“No good forcing it,” he told Torquil. “I only paint 
when I’m in the mood.” 

“You’re lucky,” the author responded, with a touch of 
bitterness. “You haven’t a publisher behind you and a 
public that must be satisfied.” 

There followed a long argument on the sanctity of work : 
a mistress to woo, not a stubborn master, according to 
Torquil’s new friend. Working to time was slavery; to 
amass money a greater crime. Of course, if a man was 

married He shrugged his shoulders and smiled at 

Torquil. Why marry? There was plenty of love freely 
given in the South; a cleaner form of adventure, according 
to his philosophy, provided that a man met it with a sane 
and healthy joy of youth and a reverence for simple beauty. 
Money must not enter in, nor the chance of satiety. Love 
must be there as well as desire. There should be no search 
for illicit adventure. It grew, out of the heart of Nature. 

“But — many loves?” objected Torquil. 

“Why not?” The artist spoke serenely. The question 
was difficult to answer, to a man so removed from con- 
vention, without an excursion into ethics, and Torquil re- 
mained silent. “Have you only loved once?” He smiled as 
the younger man’s face betrayed him. 

It was strange how he had been haunted lately by 
memories of Josephine. She seemed to belong to the vivid 


THE VACANT COURTS 


247 


sea, to the breeze that rustled through the palms, an elusive 
spirit that promised a peace denied him by Fiammetta. Sud- 
denly he found himself abandoning all reserve, pouring out 
his private troubles, as a man will to a stranger whilst 
concealing it from his best friend. The artist listened, 
sucking away at a pipe that had seen good service. 

“I should cut adrift if I were you/’ was his comment at 
the close. “It’s no good. You're not happy. You can’t 
even do your work.” He thought for a moment and went 
on, stretching his legs in the golden sunshine. “The gods 
send a man into the world naked. That’s their infinite 
wisdom. He proceeds to hamper himself by acquiring pos- 
I sessions; heaps them up, until at last his shoulder groans 
beneath the burden. If he’s sane, he returns to his earlier 
state, or as near it as possible — a free man, close to Nature, 
despising wealth and ambition, seeing love as the only re- 
ward ; love of all creatures, and love of work. For itself — 
that’s where you’ve blundered.” His eyes grew vague, lost 
in his dream. “To follow the light, to catch for a moment 
the wonder and joy of creation, to be one with the universe. 
Success, the world’s success, is nothing. It’s complicated 
by sordid details. But the freedom of the spirit that 

comes from a knowledge of achievement It’s rare — 

but, by God, it’s worth it! Cut loose. Start life again.” 

“I can’t.” Torquil’s voice was muffled. 

“Because of the woman?” 

Torquil nodded. 

“Oh, damn marriage !” cried the painter. “It’s im- 
moral in a case like yours.” His eyes narrowed. “Then, 
cut work.” 

Torquil turned on him furiously. 

“Thanks! I’d sooner cut my throat.” 

His new friend chuckled. 

“That’s answered me! You’ve still a spark of grace in 
you. Some day you’ll win free.” He tapped the ashes out 
of his pipe against the leg of the marble-topped table, and 

went on thoughtfully, “I don’t like compromise, still 

Why not take a room, right away from your wife’s house, a 


248 


TORQUIL’S SUCCESS 

corner you can call your own and where you can work 
undisturbed? It will give your imagination a chance. At 
present, it's harnessed to your senses. ,, 

Torquil’s eyes widened, considering the suggestion. He 
could see himself again in the bare room that breathed of 
work, above the quiet Chelsea square. 

“It’s a good idea. I wonder I never thought of that. I 
will. Let’s have a drink on it.” He called the waiter, hov- 
ering on the border of the little terrace, and ordered two 
cognacs. 

They drank in a friendly silence, staring out over the 
wonderful view. Far away to the west rose the violet ridge 
of the Esterels, and the great pageant of sea and shore swept 
past them into Italy, blue and white, and gold and silver, 
interwoven with the fairy-like green of the olives, the groves 
of lemon and orange, and the darker note of ilex and cork- 
trees. The air was so still they could hear the faint groan 
of the cog-wheels as the train toiled up the funiculaire, with 
a dulled, intermittent sound of firing below from the Tir aux 
Pigeons , echoing back from the terraced houses. The artist 
was measuring the shadows thrown from the stucco balus- 
trade. 

“Time I was off.” He rose to his feet. 

Torquil stirred from his half-slumber. 

“Work to do?” 

“A sketch I began yesterday at Roquebrune. If I start 
now I shall catch the same light — that sudden quickening 
before the sunset. Good luck to you.” He held out a 
hand, supple and strong, the base of the palm smeared by a 
patch of paint, that was repeated on the frayed edge of his 
cuff. 

Torquil, regretfully, watched him go; the stocky figure, 
sublimely indifferent to all but ease in his clothes, not hand- 
some but virile and attractive, with his quick smile and 
thoughtful eyes, a man contented with his life. But lacking 
in principles, he decided. A dreamer, who hid his idleness 
under a cloak of philosophy and treated his fitful amours 
as a part of his love of Nature. He would never achieve 


THE VACANT COURTS 


249 


greatness — didn’t seem to care about it! Still, his advice 
had been interesting, and the last suggestion of practical 
use. Torquil would certainly act upon it and find a pied-a- 
terre for work. This prolonged visit to Monte Carlo had 
been a bad break in his writing; just as he was getting a 
grip on the latter half of his new novel, beginning to feel the 
end in sight. Impossible to work here. Still, he might 
introduce some further chapters out of England? A vivid 
impression of Monte Carlo. Or would it delay the story? 
No, it fitted into the life of the principal characters. Only 
the background need be changed. 

On his journey home he began to plan it, leaning back on 
the hard seat of the empty compartment as the train slid 
down the steep incline of that Rigi of the Riviera. It halted 
with a grinding of brakes on the platform for the Hermitage , 
and a stout but handsome lady in black got in, sat down 
facing Torquil, started, smiled and held out her hand. 

“How do you do?” It was Mrs. Rollit. “I passed you 
in the Casino last night, but you didn’t remember me.” 

He was taken aback. Her presence there seemed to bring 
Josephine still nearer, awakening further memories. With 
an effort he recovered his presence of mind. 

“Then I’m sure I didn’t see you,” he responded gallantly. 

She looked at him with her old smile, at once indulgent 
and slightly coquettish; the smile of a woman who has 
been an effortless success in her youth and still carried 
about with her the shadow of past adulation. 

“I don’t wonder ! You were with what my nephew calls 
‘a perfect dream.’ Dressed in white, with auburn hair.” 
She was frankly curious. 

“Oh, my wife,” responded Torquil. 

Her eyes widened. 

“Really? I must congratulate you. I was wondering 
who she was. I saw her again to-day, coming out from 
lunch at Ciro’s.” 

It was Torquil’s turn to look surprised. 

“I think you must have been mistaken. They’ve gone 
to San Remo in the car. I played truant.” He smiled at 


250 


TORQUIL’S SUCCESS 

Kate. “I wanted to be alone and think, instead of motoring 
through the dust. Perhaps you saw my wife's double? 
Your occult propensities 1” 

“Oh, no. She was there in the flesh." Mrs. Rollit grew 
obstinate. “She had on the same hat. She was talking 
French to the man who was with her, a really well turned- 
out Frenchman. Dressed in England — you know what I 
mean? No details wrong." She caught herself up, “Am 
I being indiscreet ? Perhaps she was playing truant, too !" 
and changed the subject, aware, too late, that her tongue 
had been at its old tricks. “I read The Shepherd on the 
Heights and enjoyed it thoroughly. Delightful! It brought 
it all back to me; those sunny days at Les Lecques. Sad, 
Mr. Merriman’s death, wasn’t it? He was so devoted. 
Poor Josephine! It’s lonely for her, widowed and child- 
less, in that big house. She has asked me to Westwick 
this summer and I’m hoping to fit it in. Have you seen 
her lately?" !f- ’ 

“No." His eyes were averted. “I seem to have quite 
lost sight of her since she deserted London." 

“Still, Westwick’s barely an hour’s journey." She studied 
him shrewdly, interested by the confession. “Why don’t 
you go and look her up ? It would do her good to see more 
people. She sees no one but David Heron and now I hear 
he’s gone away." She lowered her voice. “Between you 

and me, it’s her own fault. I always hoped Such a 

nice fellow, too, and they have so many tastes in common." 
The inference was obvious. Torquil felt an absurd annoy- 
ance. His expression betrayed the fact and the widow was 
secretly amused. So he hadn’t got over that boyish folly? 
Suddenly she remembered his wife, so elegant and assured, 
on the steps of the well-known restaurant, talking to Pierre 
de Lusignan. “I can’t, somehow, picture you as a married 
man." She smiled at Torquil. 

“I’ve been married for nearly three years," he retorted. 

“Despite your theories?" She teased him: “I can see 
you now holding forth on matrimony as a stumbling- 


THE VACANT COURTS 251 

block to a man’s successful career, in the garden at Les 
Lecques.” 

“I was wrong. It’s — excellent copy !” The jest sounded 
a trifle bitter and the mischief died out of her face. 

“Well, I hope you’re happy,” she murmured kindly. 

“Very.” The word was uttered quickly, with a touch 
of defiance. 

“He’s not,” said Kate to herself. “Poor boy! Such a 
beautiful woman, too. But I never could trust red hair. I 
must write and tell Josephine. It’s odd she never mentions 
him. I suppose it was one of the many friendships in which 
Richard was the connecting link.” 

As they got out at the terminus she gave Torquil her 
address. 

“Look me up if you’re my way. Though I shan’t expect 
you,” she added gaily. 

“Why not?” He spoke with his old abruptness. 

“A quiet hotel full of middle-aged people. Too dull for 
a gay young man!” Her face changed; became absent. 
“But Maurice likes it.” The old refrain. “We were there 
together. Years ago.” 

Torquil, instead of mirth, felt a queer pang of envy. If 
he died to-morrow, would Fiammetta ever give him another 
thought ? 

“I’ll come, if I can get away. It’s not always easy,” he 
explained. “We’re here with friends, a party of six. My 
wife seems to collect engagements, as some people do old 
china! I’m generally involved. But I’m glad I played 
truant to-day.” He gave her a provocative glance and she 
laughed back. 

“You’ve not improved! You’re just the same. You’d 
make love to any woman — at seventeen or at seventy — if 
you thought she would come in useful for copy. Oh, yes, I 
saw through that book. It was Josephine, from beginning to 
end!” Her smiling face grew grave. She sighed. “Jose- 
phine as she might be — if only she weren’t so incurably 
loyal.” 


252 


TORQUIL’S SUCCESS 

The phrase rang in Torquil’s ears long after they had 
parted. In Mrs. Rollit’s indiscretions there was always a 
strong substratum of truth. Loyal? Was Fiammetta loyal? 
What was she doing to-day with Pierrot? Alone, or were 
the others with hao*? If he ever found her unfaithful, 
Torquil swore he would be revenged. She was clever, but 
he was clever, too. He would not be easily deceived. He 
caught his reflection in the glass of a shop window as he 
passed and his vanity reawakened. Handsome, young, a 
successful author. He swaggered across the well-planned 
square, with its palm-trees and its bright flower-beds, the 
groups of plants bisected by lines of dazzling marble chips, 
and was conscious of more than one woman’s glance. His 
meeting with Mrs. Rollit, her instant recognition and kindly 
show of interest, had renewed his old confidence in him- 
self. His head back, chin thrust forward, he strode into 
the gay hotel to find the rest of the party assembled round 
a table laden with tea and cakes. The Puffin greeted him 
jocosely. 

“Missed the drive of your life! We skidded coming into 
Mentone — they’d been watering the street — and took off 
the corner of a tram. Or was it the conductor’s button? 
Anyhow, you can picture the fuss. Luckily the car’s all 
right save for a few scratches and nobody a penny the 
worse.” 

“Except for our nerves,” Audrey murmured. 

Torquil looked at Fiammetta, sitting next to Lusignan. 

“You weren’t hurt?” 

“Not at all.” Her green-blue eyes were raised to his 
without hesitation, but deep down in their wonderful depths 
there lurked a mischievous amusement. 

Torquil noted this and drove on defiantly : 

“A good thing you had Pierrot at hand to act as an inter- 
preter.” From the Compleat Minx came a giggle, ill-sup- 
pressed, and Torquil’s glance shot to her face. “What did 
he do?” 

“Nothing.” Lusignan spoke for himself. “I possessed 
my soul in patience.” 


THE VACANT COURTS 


253 


“Patience,” said Fiammetta calmly, “is Pierrot’s sole re- 
maining virtue. No wonder he’s proud of it.” Every one 
laughed. “Don’t you want some tea?” 

“Thanks.” Torquil took the chair that was empty, next 
to the Puffin’s. 

“Where did you lunch,” asked that individual. “You 
ought to have been with us. A langouste ” 

Torquil interrupted him. 

“Guess?” He smiled, measuring his words. “I wanted 
to see some pretty people. For ‘copy,’ of course! So I 
went” — he paused to take his cup from his wife’s hand, 
watching her face. Did a shadow pass across it? — “to 
a little inn at La Turbie.” 

In her quick, amused: “How like you!” he hunted for 
a note of relief. 

His eyes passed furtively to the Frenchman. Lusignan 
seemed absorbed in a creamy cake of a perilous nature. 
He swallowed the last mouthful and wiped his fingers fas- 
tidiously on the little paper napkin. 

“And you found them?” Fiammetta inquired. 

“Who?” He had lost the thread. 

“The 'pretty people.’ In the interests of literature.” 

“No.” He was suddenly confused. Was he making a 
fool of himself? “But I met a very decent chap, an artist, 
staying there. We talked.” 

“You mean,” said the Compleat Minx, “that you talked 
and he listened. That’s where his decency comes in !” She 
seemed to be bubbling over with mischief. Before he could 
find a retort, she laid a hand on Pierrot’s arm. “How’s 
the poor wrist? The one you hurt in the smash?” she 
inquired with an open tenderness. 

“Better,” said the victim smoothly. He moved it gently 
from side to side and the Minx laughed. 

“Poor dear! Its musical career napoo!” 

The Puffin butted in. 

“I’m awfully sorry, old chap, but it really wasn’t my 
fault. The road was like glass. Why didn’t you tell me? 
I’d no idea you were damaged.” 


254 


TORQUIL’S SUCCESS 

Torquil’s mistrust was evaporating. It must have been 
Mrs. Rollit’s mistake. Suddenly in a mirror behind Fiam- 
metta’s head, he caught a glimpse of the Puffin’s face. Sly 
satisfaction was painted on it. 

“I forgot you were on that side,” Letts continued from 
his chair, a little to the rear of Torquil’s, and his left eye- 
lid drooped. In the wink was expressed all his native vul- 
garity: a flash of the man behind his wealth and hardly- 
acquired veneer. 

A murderous instinct invaded Torquil. It was true, then, 
Mrs. Rollit’s story? The pair had been left behind and 
they were all in league against him, laughing at him in their 
sleeves. Even that child of seventeen, and Audrey of the 
Madonna face. With an effort he kept his countenance 
blank, whilst his thoughts angrily whirled on. Should he 
show them up? To acknowledge himself a duped husband? 
Never. He saw a better way. He would go home, back to 
his work, careless of his wife’s intrigues, indifferent to her 
opinion. He mastered his anger and looked up, to catch the 
Minx’s watchful eye. 

“Well, I think I had the best of it. No risk to life, or 
digestion! I’ve enjoyed myself, out of the crowd, and I’ve 
got a new idea for a book.” 

“Another?” In Fiammetta’s voice was the old touch 
of mockery. She had once called his writing a “hobby.” 
The passing dart still rankled. 

“An incurable habit/’ he answered lightly. “The 
worst of it is that I never want so desperately to work as 
when circumstances are against it. When I’ve ample 
chances I long to slack, but holidays have a perverse effect. 
This lotus-land is driving me hard. I’m off out of it to- 
morrow.” 

“What?” Fiammetta looked startled. 

“Have you any objection?” His voice was polite. “I’m 
leaving you in good hands — though I don’t quite trust Letts. 
Not when he’s doing his Brooklands stunts. Otherwise I 
think you’re safe.” Slowly and insolently, his eyes travelled 
round the group and lingered, meeting Lusignan’s. “Yes. 


THE VACANT COURTS 255 

And among old friends, who will forgive me for breaking 
up the happy party.” 

“But you can't go!” The Compleat Minx tossed her 
head. “We shall be odd numbers.” 

Torquil saw his longed-for chance to pay back old 
scores. He detested Audrey’s sister and her pose as an 
ingenue which permitted endless flirtation and a crude dis- 
regard for the victim’s feelings. 

“I’ll back you to prevent that!” He smiled at her pro- 
vokingly. “So long as there’s a man in Monte who can 
be commandeered or bought. That’s the beauty of inno- 
cence. It remembers its Noah’s Ark — the animals always 
two and two. Oh, happy childhood!” He saw the colour 
leap up into her pointed face and turned to his wife. “Jok- 
ing apart, I had a letter from Arkwright this morning. He’s 
getting impatient at the delay in sending in my present 
book. Takes time to publish now. I must settle down 
and finish it. I thought it all through at La Turbie. It’s 
pleasant here but, after all, my work comes first.” His 
eyes kindled and he laughed, glorying in a sense of freedom 
and aware of astonishment and annoyance in the woman 
who was so sure of him. 

“As you like.” Her eyes defied him. 

There followed a chorus of disapproval but Torquil 
stood firm. 

“It’s nice to feel I shall be missed,” he said obliquely to 
the Puffin, who was looking a shade uneasy. He had covered 
certain hazy records of the past successfully by his pompous 
“respectability.” Of all things he feared scandal. Fiam- 
metta was his wife’s friend. She belonged to a circle he 
revered, but he wished Lusignan would depart. Had Tor- 
quil seen through the trick played upon him that afternoon? 
Quite harmless, as he told himself, but still Oh, con- 

found these women! He hunted for the “simple comfort” 
of a highly-priced cigar, which he had smuggled through 
the customs. 

“I’m going to pack,” Torquil announced, “and then have 
a last flutter.” He was conscious as he left the lounge of 


256 


TORQUIL’S SUCCESS 

his wife’s glance that followed him and a chill pervading 
the happy party. He damned them as he sought the lift 
w*ith the cheerful contempt of a married man who, however 
much he may love his wife, is conscious of his lost freedom, 
and sees ahead a few clear days of celibacy and unhampered 
action, freed from petticoat government. That was the 
real holiday! 

But in the night his conscience pricked him. He was 
leaving her to Lusignan, with no restraint save her sense of 
honour. 

“Well,” he decided, “this will prove it. Her 'incurable 
loyalty’! If I stayed, it would make no difference. Not 
in the present crowd. And I won’t stay to be laughed at. 
She doesn’t care. She has never cared.” He looked down 
at her sleeping face in the narrow bed next to his, as the 
dawn filtered in at the window, a face strangely pure in 
sleep yet framed by those heavy plaits that might have been 
Cleopatra’s. They only needed pearls strung through them 
and a jewelled disk between her brows. What lay be- 
neath those closed lids, faintly shadowed by late hours? 
Was any man master of that heart beating in her white 
bosom? He felt reckless. The artist’s words returned to 
him with redoubled force. This sort of marriage was 
immoral. 


CHAPTER XXII 


F OR a week he owned the “dream house,” living on 
his upper floor, the cheerful coals piled high in the 
grate, shutting out the yellow fog that folded the 
bare Park in silence. He was happy, his own master, 
hypnotized by his work. There was no such woman as 
Fiammetta. She was mythical, like the Phoenix, and the 
flame of his passion burnt out. 

But he wasn’t satisfied with his book. 

He brought to it not only the keen criticism that is the 
result of a holiday from writing but the judgment of a man 
released from the fear of interruption. He could see it 
now as a whole, distinct from his favourite chapters, bril- 
liant but lacking depth, a caricature of the life around him. 

One night, in disgust, he decided to burn it and start 
afresh — on a “masterpiece!” At the last moment, his 
courage failed him and he threw the manuscript into a 
drawer. In locking it, he was seized by a doubt. Time — 
it was all a question of time. Could he afford those wasted 
months? There was Arkwright to consider. Damn Ark- 
wright! He picked up his pen. 

He was deep in the framework of a plot that had haunted 
him persistently when the telephone bell sounded. The 
sudden noise startled him. Frowning, he reached for the 
receiver. Who could it be at this hour? To his amaze- 
ment, his curt enquiry was answered by Pierre de Lusignan. 

“Just back from Monte Carlo. Your wife asked me to 
ring you up and give you the latest news. They started 
yesterday in the car along the coast of Italy — wanted a 
change of scene. I saw them off. At the rate they left I 
should say they’d be in Rome to-morrow!” 

257 


258 


TORQUIL’S SUCCESS 

“No?” Torquil was thinking it out. “Is Letts driving?” 

“In a sense. He’s holding the steering-wheel.” Pierrot’s 
careful English accent admitted a throaty “r,” sure trace 
of Gallic amusement. “More truthful to say it was driv- 
ing him ! But Providence protects its Puffins. I don’t think 
you need be nervous. Anyhow, that’s the message — and 
to ask how the book’s progressing?” Again that betraying 
consonant. 

“Going splendidly,” said Torquil, his knee pressing the 
locked drawer in which the discarded work lay. “Just the 
four of them?” he inquired. 

“Yes. Letts the proud Pasha.” 

Torquil wondered. All he said was: 

“Well, you’ve come back to nice weather.” 

“Charming! The fog in the Channel was like cream 
cheese — delayed us hours. Difficult, too, to get a taxi. 
I’ve only just achieved dinner — my excuse for troubling 

you so late. But my conscience ” He broke off and 

laughed. “There’s something about a London fog that 
explains the British conscience. By the way, I was to tell 
you that their address is nebulous, too, but they’ll call for 
letters at Genoa, care of the Credit Lyonnais ” 

“Thanks. Very good of you.” Torquil hoped it sounded 
hearty. He added lightly, “My wife all right?” 

“Quite — though we all lost money the last night at the 
Club and returned home in bad tempers. Mademoiselle 
Minx tried to arrange a suicide in the Gardens, with a hazy 
idea of obtaining petrol to expedite her departure. Un- 
luckily, it rained.” 

“A pity,” Torquil drily agreed. He wished Lusignan 
good night and hung up the receiver. 

He was puzzled. It was so unlike his wife to go off with 
a trio that contained no worthy cavalier. And what had 
brought Pierrot home before the end of his leave? A 
quarrel? Or had he taken an old friendship too seriously 
— misjudged Fiammetta? 

The gnawing doubt was followed by a fierce longing for 
her presence. It swept over him in a wave of physical lone- 


THE VACANT COURTS 


259 


liness and desire which gave way to a touch of panic. The 
car, Letts, that dangerous road, and the vague knowledge 
Torquil possessed of the party’s whereabouts? She might 
be lying dead at this moment, or crippled, at some wayside 
inn. 

He shuddered, his head on his hands, mastered by his 
imagination, his fatal habit of conjuring up swift pictures 
vivid in line and detail. Dead — a broken marble statue, 
the exquisite flame of life extinguished, whilst her spirit, 
ever withheld from him, danced “burning, through the 
night. . . 

He had always felt that underneath the brilliant beauty, 
warmth and light of that Southern shore there lurked some 
horror : a pagan indifference to pain, and a silent defiance 
of man and his pleasure. In that land where at dead of 
night the doors of the gay hotels stole open to let a con- 
sumptive’s coffin pass. Why had he left her, deserting his 
post? Through a mad impulse of jealousy. Mad, since 
Pierrot was not her lover. No lover would throw aside the 
chance of the intimate possibilities of that frivolous, com- 
plaisant party, the lady he loved by his side in the car. He 
was only a “habit,” as Nan had averred. In that moment, 
Torquil would have renounced all his ambitions to know 
that she lay, safe, in the great gold bed below; Fiammetta, 
her face pure as a child’s, her glittering plaits across the 
pillow. 

He tried to believe she was there, to achieve sanity by the 
same power of imagination that had conjured up disaster; 
but the effort failed miserably. Did every man suffer like 
this, caught in the toils of the flesh, or was it the sensitive 
doom of the author? 

His mind went off at a tangent — the book? There could 
be no question now of destroying Quenched Fires . (An 
ominous title it seemed to him as he thought of those curves 
in the Corniche road.) He must finish it — satisfy Arkwright 
— and go in quest of his wife. He began to calculate the 
time this would take, and his nostrils curled. An easy task. 
The “happy ending,” love triumphant, marriage bells — 


260 


TORQUIL’S SUCCESS 

the author’s tongue in his cheek. It would be a popular 
novel; women would call it “sweetly pretty” where they 
missed the skit on well-known people — Torquil writhed. 
More than ever, he recognized its defects. It would not 
add to his reputation on the literary side. 

The memory of Merriman and a long- forgotten speech 
rose up like a phantom from the grave: “If an author 
wants to be respected ” 

Behind this, yet another vision. The dingy room in Pim- 
lico, with the far-off notes of the cornet-player, and him- 
self, on his knees, his hot face pressed against a shabby 
sleeve, crying aloud : “I’ve done it !” 

A coal fell clattering to the hearth and he came back to 
the present. Stiffly, he stooped, unlocked the drawer and 
threw the manuscript on the table. 

After this, events moved quickly, upsetting all his calcu- 
lations. A hurried line from Fiammetta announced that 
the car had broken down — some trouble with the engine. 
They were stranded at Alassio in a little hotel wedged 
between “a dirty beach and a walled town, picturesque but 
full of smells.” Her next grievance was the weather. Three 
days of mistral and wild rain. Impossible to motor through 
it ; Audrey had a sore throat. Finally an imperative wire : 

“Home Tuesday, dinner at eight.” 

His relief was tempered by the fear of frustration at the 
last moment. She might elect to stay in Paris with the 
rest of the party in the serious pursuit of clothes, or be taken 
by some fresh caprice. In the depths of his heart he was 
certain that disappointment awaited him. 

It did. He went to the station to meet the crowded con- 
tinental train, missed her, tore up and down the platform, 
and arrived back in Park Lane to find her on the doorstep, 
smiling and calm, saying good-bye to an elderly Major, 
very correct, a fellow-traveller from Paris, who had suavely 
insisted on seeing her home. They parted, and she greeted 
her husband. 


THE VACANT COURTS 261 

“Well?” She gave him her cheek to kiss. “How are 
you?” She turned away to scrutinize a pile of letters. 

“I’m — all right.” His voice was jerky. “I went to meet 
you at Charing Cross, but somehow ” 

She interrupted him. 

“Has a box come? From Albergo? I picked up the 
loveliest old clock in a dirty little shop there — a real bargain ! 
I’ll tell you about it as soon as I’ve had a bath. The only 
pleasant day we had in that God- forsaken spot — though the 
Minx nearly got bitten.” She added calmly, “By a wolf.” 

Torquil stared at her. 

“A wolf?” 

“Yes. In the Cathedral. It was chained up, like a dog, 
in the porch. To keep out sinners, I suppose? Or to 
suggest poverty — it was close to the Poor-box — the pro- 
verbial ‘wolf at the door’ ! The Minx would tease it until 
a priest warned her it was dangerous. Fascinating, to see 
it snap! The luggage?” She answered his enquiry. “Oh, 
Major Gage is seeing to that. I couldn’t wait for the Cus- 
toms.” She was moving on up the stairs and she called 
back over her shoulder, “I’ve brought you a present, Tor- 
quil. A very old French edition of the Decameron , with 
divine illustrations — though rather improper !” She laughed. 
“There’s a rival Fiammetta! Perhaps you will see the 
likeness ?” 

Tongue-tied, Torquil followed, aware of the faint, famil- 
iar scent that floated back from her loosened veil. Would 
she notice the roses in her room? 

Late that night he discovered them placed outside her 
bedroom door. One had fallen, the red petals like tears of 
pain, on the parquet. 

The old life began again, the house a hive of gay young 
people clustering about the Queen Bee; Torquil upstairs, 
finding the effort of concentration increasingly hard, but 
bent on finishing his book. He was haunted by the book- 
to-be. Fiammetta’s latest fancy was to conduct an orchestra. 
It met at all hours of the day to practise music too difficult 


262 


TORQUIL’S SUCCESS 

for most of the amateur performers, with a maddening re- 
iteration of faulty passages. It was torture to Torquil 
overhead. One morning he slammed out of the house and 
strode across the Park to Chelsea, determined to secure a 
room where he could work with some chance of silence. 
As he turned into his old square, a weight lifted from his 
spirit and instinctively he quickened his pace. His land- 
lady greeted him with a fluttering curiosity. The romance 
of his marriage had cast a halo over her simple establish- 
ment. She had never expected to see him again — moving 
in his “high circles” — still less, to have him as a lodger. 

Torquil had prepared his excuse: workmen busy in the 
house, his study to be repainted. Could he have his old 
room for a few weeks as a refuge in the daytime? Park 
Lane was upside-down. She knew what painters were? 
And he’d got a book he must finish. 

Miss Withers almost wailed. A “permanent let,” and 
the house full! She thought for a moment, her hands 
trembling with excitement and anxiety. Torquil mean- 
while smiled at her, strangely warmed by the welcome. 

“I could let you have the one beneath and give up me 
own to Miss Brown. Yes.” She drew her thin form erect 
with its silk blouse and suggestion of aggressive virginity. 
Her pride consisted in the fact that the house had been 
“left” her by her father who would never have wished 
his daughter to “work,” but: “In these times” — an elo- 
quent pause, a sniff — “I see to the light dusting.” 

“But how about yourself?” asked Torquil and received 
the cryptic answer : 

“I’ll manage. It’s a good room — the one Mr. Narundur 
had in your time — very pleasant in the spring.” She led 
the way invitingly. “He’s doing locum tenens now for a 
doctor in the North, but he’s left some of his things with 
me. Those are his books.” She pointed to a shelf above 
the washing-stand. “I’m hoping to have him back one 
day. Such a nice young gentleman.” 

Torquil recognized the phrase; another link with the 
past. 


THE VACANT COURTS 


263 


“This will do first-rate, if you’re sure it’s not putting 
you about?” He moved to the window and gazed across 
the bare hedge to the tennis courts with a queer feeling of 
coming home. “From to-morrow?” His voice was eager. 

Miss Withers begged a day for “the cleaning.” There 
was Miss Brown to consider, too. 

“Though I'm quite sure she’ll be agreeable. A nice 
young lady — out all day.” (The highest praise in her cate- 
gory.) “W T ould you want the bed moved?” As he shook 
his head, she ran on, “I could pack away Mr. Narundur’s 
books — somewhere.” 

“There’s no need.” Torquil divined from the last word a 
lack of space. 

He engaged the room and took his departure, insisting 
on shaking hands with Miss Withers, although with a faint 
hesitation she glanced at her palm and said: “I’ve been 
dusting!” A smell of burnt chops rose from the kitchen 
with its own lurid explanation. As he went down the steep 
steps, he heard a clock strike the hour and decided to lunch 
in the neighbourhood and avoid the musical contingent, 
crowding round his wife’s table. There was one pro- 
fessional who played the viola — without nails! (Or that 
was how it struck Torquil.) Nature had not been generous 
at the outset in this direction and his metier had insisted 
upon a drastic shearing of the remainder. Those soft pads 
fingering the toast always made the author sick. 

He cut across to King’s Road and entered a little restau- 
rant he had patronized in the old days. It was filling fast 
but he found a table and ordered the plat du jour. The 
waitress recognized him. 

“You’ve been away, sir,” she suggested, accustomed to 
chat with the artists who formed the main clientele, as she 
swept some crumbs from the cloth. 

“Yes, but I’m back now,” said Torquil enjoying his 
private jest. “There’s no place like Chelsea!” 

“No, you’re right. A bit far out for the theayters, but 

with the Palace and the Pictures ” She left the sentence 

unfinished and Torquil in doubt if her reference was to the 


264 


TORQUIL’S SUCCESS 

work of her customers or to the charms of Mary Pickford, 
and whisked off to another guest. 

From where he sat he could watch the steady stream of 
people passing. He decided, at length, that few women 
knew how to walk. They either hurried, head thrust for- 
ward, their bodies jolted from shoulder to hips, or dragged, 
their weight thrown on their heels. Grace was not an un- 
conscious asset as in the Latin race. Here and there a good- 
looking girl, with a curious wriggle from the waist, her 
shoulders hunched, slim body slanting backwards, aimed 
at effect, unaware that only the halo of youth preserved 
her from ridicule. The elderly women adopting this pose 
would have moved a sculptor to tears. But presently, 
threading her way through the others, came a figure light 
as thistledown, inconspicuous, neatly dressed, yet utterly 
pleasing to Torquil’s senses ; silver furs about her shoulders, 
a hint of silver in her hair, grey eyes lost in thought. With- 
out effort she seemed to avoid contact with the heedless 
crowd, moving irresistibly forward on her slender, arched 
feet. In front of the restaurant she paused, considered the 
place for a moment and entered. It was Josephine. 

Torquil, apprehensive, watched her. Their eyes met and 
he saw her recoil. She bowed coldly and passed his table, 
but the room beyond him was full. The busy waitress bus- 
tled up and drew out the chair facing Torquil’s. 

“There’s a seat here, madam,” she called to the guest. 

Josephine turned slowly. Torquil felt the blood rush up 
to the roots of his smooth, black hair, as he realized her 
reluctance. 

“Please?” He stood up. “I’ve finished.” An obvious 
mis-statement ; his plate was still full, his glass of beer barely 
touched. 

He looked so like a guilty schoolboy that Josephine’s 
sense of humour warred with her nervous annoyance. She 
realized that any suggestion of a scene in this narrow, 
crowded space would be too humiliating. Already people 
were watching the couple. 

“Oh, how do you do ?” Quietly she accepted the situation. 


THE VACANT COURTS 


265 


“Don't let me disturb your lunch." She settled herself in 
the vacant seat and became immersed in the bill of fare. 

“You’re sure?" 

“Of course." She smiled faintly. 

He sat down, aware of yielding to an overmastering 
temptation yet uncertain of the issue. As she drew off her 
grey gloves and he saw, beneath his lowered lids, her 
fragile hands bare of rings save for the worn wedding-band, 
memory had him at her mercy. With the dramatic sense 
of contrast that every true writer knows he was swept back 
to another scene; the sun-filled space of the Reserve , with 
the swarthy chattering Marseillaises — those exuberant chil- 
dren of the South — and the glittering sea beyond the win- 
dows, in that coveted tete-a-tete on the day Kate had left the 
Villa. Bitterness flooded him. He looked up. 

“Mrs. Merriman?" 

Josephine had given her orders for a meal, the main idea 
of which was speed : cold meat, a cup of coffee. Resenting 
the present contretemps, she was yet startled by the pain 
in Torquil’s voice when he addressed her. 

“Yes?" 

“This is horrible," he murmured. “Don’t you think you 
could forgive me?" 

She did not answer, but he saw her glance falter and the 
stars in her eyes become veiled, a sign as he knew well 
of some trouble of the spirit. He went on, gaining 
courage : 

“I know what you must have thought. But I couldn’t 
tell — I had no idea that Mr. Merriman was ill. Afterwards , 
I was sorry — too nervous to write to you. But what you 
can’t understand, is all that lay behind my action. The 

necessity " He paused and stammered. “My m-mar- 

riage — I had to get on, to make money. Everything hinged 
on that." 

“Yes?" It was non-committal. He could feel her loy- 
alty at bay and was sharply aware of his mistake. 

“Of course, in time, with your husband But I 

couldn’t afford time, you see." Desperately he forged 


266 


TORQUIL’S SUCCESS 

ahead. “It looked like ingratitude — but it wasn’t — I’ve 
never forgotten your kindness. I couldn’t. I owe you both 
too much. I’ve always hoped one day to meet you and 
explain.” 

She interrupted him with a slight but commanding gesture. 

“You can’t explain to the dead, Torquil. That is one 
of the bitter lessons of life.” 

He winced. 

“No. I suppose it’s too late. Altogether. For you, as 
well.” 

Silence followed this conclusion. Josephine made no effort 
to break it. The waitress appeared with a plate of cold 
beef. In handing the potatoes she brushed off Josephine’s 
loose furs. Torquil stooped and retrieved them. A faint 
scent of lavender rose from the satin lining. 

“Lavender!” His voice broke. For the word held subtle 
memories. 

She glanced at him covertly and saw that the tears stood 
in his eyes. Amazed and shocked, she lowered her own. 
Torquil , moved to this extent? He meant it then, the plea 
for forgiveness? The boy was wretched and sincere in his 
tardy repentance. All her generous soul was stirred; her 
thoughts moved swiftly forward. Success had not brought 
him happiness. He had hinted at some pressure behind 
his ungracious conduct. She would take him at his word. 
Impulsively, she leaned towards him. 

“It was not for myself. It hurt — Richard.” 

He nodded, his lips compressed, and swallowed a lump 
that rose in his throat, ashamed of his sudden weakness. 

“But you — now?” He caught his breath. For the mist 
had cleared from her eyes; they shone, full of the old 
light with that curious swift dilation — the “stars” of his 
happy days. 

She smiled, yet sadness lingered in the sensitive curve 
of her lips. 

“Since you ask for . it — absolution. Such a beautiful 
word, isn’t it, Torquil? You used to be fond of words.” 


THE VACANT COURTS 


267 


He tried to answer but was tongue-tied. He could only 
look his gratitude. She saw this, and, compassionate, talked 
on in a lighter vein giving him time to recover. 

“You should have been with me this morning. Tve been 
interviewing a new housemaid — that’s how I came to Chel- 
sea — with an amazing vocabulary of the latest slang. Or 
it seemed so to me, but perhaps I’m out of date. She’s 
going to 'try’ my situation, though we haven’t a cinema at 
Westwick! It was touch and go until I said the chauffeur 
was a good dancer and that they had a gramophone with 
the latest 'jazz’ in the servants’ hall. I was thankful to 
get her.” Josephine sighed. “I hate being dragged to 
London now.” 

''Yes. I can understand that,” said Torquil. “I often 
wish I lived in the country.” 

“Not satisfied with Park Lane?” Her delicate brows 
were raised with an unexpected touch of mischief. 

“Oh — it’s all right,” said Torquil lamely. 

Josephine’s smile vanished. He did not look a happy 
man for all his air of prosperity. 

“And your work?” she inquired gently. 

“I’m finishing a new book that’s overdue. It was in- 
terrupted by a visit to Monte Carlo — where, by the way, 
I met Mrs. Rollit. We talked of you, and the happy week 
at Les Lecques. She was looking just the same, with 
'Maurice’ discreetly on guard, and not to be blamed when 
zero turned up ! She told me solemnly that it 'wasn’t good’ 
for her to win.” 

He laughed, but Josephine was aware of his evasion. In 
the old days her leading question anent his writing would 
have brought from him an eager response. Had his am- 
bition worn itself out? She judged him to be too clever a 
man to remain content with his present success, conscious, 
too, that of late the reviews had been falling off, the critics 
indifferent. What had happened to Torquil? Was this 
the result of his marriage? She became aware of her 
silence. 


268 


TORQUIL’S SUCCESS 

“Yes, I heard from Kate of your meeting.” She added 
deliberately, “And of how much she admired your wife.” 

“So she told me.” His voice was cold. 

Josephine felt slightly rebuffed. She had intended to 
seal her forgiveness by asking him for a day to Westwick. 
Now her sensitive pride recoiled from the notion of his 
dreaming that it could pave the way to an introduction to the 
well-known woman he had married. She glanced at her 
watch. 

“I mustn't miss the three o’clock train. I meant to have 
lunched at the station, but this little place looked homely 
and I was feeling rather hungry after an early breakfast.” 

The light died out of Torquil’s face. 

“So soon? Won’t a later train do?” As she shook her 
head he was seized by a happy thought. “Anyhow, you’ll 
let me drive you to the station ?” 

She was touched by his evident desire to prolong the un- 
looked-for meeting. 

“I mustn’t interrupt your work.” 

“Oh, if that were the only interruption!” He checked 
himself — too late! Josephine had guessed a part of the 
burden of his daily life. He met the sympathy in her eyes 
and yielded to a sudden impulse. ‘Do you remember I 
once told you that an author had no right to marry? Not 
if he wanted to succeed.” 

“Yes, but I didn’t quite agree. I think home life is good 
for a man.” 

Torquil shrugged his shoulders. 

“There’s no home life in London — my principal objec- 
tion to it. All this eternal gadding about! One might as 

well live in an hotel. However •” He signed to the 

waitress who brought him both accounts. 

Josephine guessed his intention and checked it. 

“Oh, no, Torquil ! I’d sooner settle for my own.” 

“Please?” He looked at her wistfully, then covered his 
earnestness with a jest. “I can really afford a slice of 
cold beef and a twopenny potato now ! It’s not a lunch at 
the Reserve.” 


THE VACANT COURTS 269 

She gave way unwillingly. Although the rupture was 
healed on the surface, she could not trust the man before 
her and she shrank from being indebted to him. Yet the 
fact that he had offered to pay — Torquil, so chary of his 
money — seemed to prove his sincerity. A faint sense of 
amusement seized her as she watched him carefully add up 
the figures and bestow sixpence on the waitress with the 
air of a conqueror. 

With her concession his mood changed. Unconsciously 
she had given him the tonic his pride was clamouring for, 
and his vanity reawoke. He helped her into the taxi with 
a possessive gallantry that brought a grin to the driver’s 
face, and sat down at his ease beside her, sprawling his 
long legs. He felt absurdly elated. Josephine had not 
forgotten those sunlit days at Les Lecques : the days of 
her tender care, and of Merriman’s patronage. Even now 
the latter fact rankled, prompting him to assert himself. 
All the way to the station he played the part of a man of 
the world, well-known in Society. “My house, my car,” 
slipped from his lips with a careless assumption that just 
missed the effect he desired. Once she interrupted him, 
inwardly weary of his blague: 

“And you get on well with Arkwright?” 

He smiled back with a curl of his nostrils. 

“Arkwright has to get on with me. He knows which 
side his bread is buttered!” 

Josephine nodded without comment. She recognized 
the old mood, intensified by the power of money acquired 
mainly through his marriage. She wondered how his wife 
liked his monopoly of her possessions. It was impossible 
that Torquil could have made a fortune by his books, a 
sum to cover his mode of living. Her earlier pity for him 
had vanished. It was with a sigh of relief that she leant 
back in the railway carriage as the train puffed out of the 
terminus and she caught a last glimpse of the author, 
standing, as if he had just saluted his superior officer, but 
with an air of owning the station. 

“He’s not improved,” she said to herself. “Unless it’s 


270 


TORQUIL’S SUCCESS 

a pose, to hide disillusion? You can never tell with a man 
like Torquil. I wonder if I’ve acted wisely ?” 

Her head ached and she felt oppressed by an unwar- 
ranted sense of guilt, already regretting their chance meet- 
ing. For Josephine was faced anew with a problem that had 
been haunting her like a shadow for many weeks : the rights 
of the living over the dead. 

Had she erred in forgiving Torquil? He was still con- 
nected in her mind with her husband’s sudden death. 
Although she had learned later from Heron that Richard’s 
heart had been affected piously for many months, it was 
Torquil who had brought the last shock to her beloved, 
bitter words and disillusion. Had she been weak through 
sudden pity? 

Yet forgiveness was a divine command. Could a woman 
be too loyal to the memory of the dead? 

She tried to thrust the thought from her. Her long 
mourning had been sincere to the point of dismissing Heron 
at the end of his self-set term of probation. Oh, that scene ! 
Could she ever forget it? Heron, his strong, ugly face 
broken up by virile passion, and the glimpse she had caught 
of unknown depths before he had mastered his despair. 
His abrupt departure from Westwick had brought not relief 
but loneliness. She was frightened by her own sensations. 
For Heron, absent in the flesh, haunted each hour of the 
empty days and his spirit was with her when she slept. She 
learned what it was to long for his voice calling to her across 
the garden, for the familiar clasp of his hand, and, deep 
down in her soul, she knew that she missed him more than 
Richard. 

Only loyalty stood in the way, and now she had failed 
the dead man, readmitting Torquil to her friendship. Did 
Torquil always bring trouble to those who took an interest 
in him? Heron had never liked the man. He would dis- 
approve of her present conduct. What a bitter business 
life was! To be true to oneself and others — the living as 
well as the dead. 

She thought of Torquil’s changed face, the lines that 


THE VACANT COURTS 


271 


spoke of suffering deepened, yet a certain coarseness about 
the mouth that had replaced its stern repression. He wasn’t 
happy, although he boasted. Josephine sighed. Was any- 
one happy, after childhood? She drew her furs tighter 
about her and stepped out on to the little platform. 

A cloud of dust rolled down to meet her as the car 
throbbed up the steep hill, and she closed her eyes wearily, 
then blindly surrendered herself to the fanciful sensation 
of flying, far detached from the earth, through the frosty 
spaces of the air. There was only the gentle motion of 
skimming the slight inclines of the country road, with the 
noise of the wind in her ears and the faint rustle of bare- 
branches. Her body swayed as they took the curve where 
Sister Ann peered down the lane and she came to herself 
with a start under the long stone wall. Mechanically she 
got out at the porch and was followed by the chauffeur 
with the fish-mat and her parcels. 

“You can put them down. Ah, here’s Mathews! Good 
night, Morris.” 

“Good night, madam.” The chauffeur touched his cap 
and was off again to the garage. 

Loneliness confronted her. The house seemed immense, 
uninhabited. She escaped from it to the garden, crossed 
the lawn aimlessly and opened the door in the wall. Every- 
where was the promise of spring, still invisible but heralded 
by the slow rising of the sap, the swollen tips of tiny boughs. 
Spring — there was no spring for her; only autumn that 
stretched out chill hands to an eternal winter. 

She walked down the gravel path. A faint tapping caught 
her ear. It might be a wood-pecker, or a nut-hatch 
in the old pear-tree ? So she came to Sister Ann ; waiting, 
endlessly waiting, too, for Time to stoop with his shining 
sickle. 

The tapping had ceased. There followed a sound more 
violent, the crash of a hammer falling on the stone steps. 
She looked up and saw Heron, his coat off, on a ladder, a 
trail of creeper loose about him, his blue eyes fixed on her 
face. 


272 


TORQUIL’S SUCCESS 

“Oh!” Her hands went to her breast where her heart 
seemed to have stopped beating. She could not stir, though 
her limbs shook, nor think, nor speak coherently. But in 
a moment the strange feeling of paralysis was swept aside. 
For Heron made a false movement; the ladder slipped and 
she sprang forward. 

“Davidl” The fear rang out in her voice. 

He saved himself by a clumsy effort, the ladder clatter- 
ing to the ground, to find her fragile arms about him, her 
hands in a frenzied clutch on his sleeve. It was only fright, 
he told himself, but her touch ran through him like a spear. 

“Disgraceful, the state of this creeper,” he grumbled, 
trying to control his voice. “Good thing Fm home again. 
I can see a fortnight’s work before me.” 

Her face changed, grew desolate. « 

“A fortnight?” she whispered, moving back. 

He gave her a searching glance. 

“For longer — if you really want me?” 

Her lips quivered. Into her eyes there leaped the sign 
for which he had waited, that Merriman had never known, 
of passion completing love. Heron needed no other answer. 

“At last!” He had her in his arms. Suddenly his clasp 
relaxed. “Was I rough?” His voice broke on the word. 

He heard her laugh beneath her breath. 


f 


CHAPTER XXIII 


T ORQUIL sold the serial rights of his finished book 
to a magazine which, with a new editor, had started 
a fresh lease of life after a period of inanition. 

In the old days at Pimlico the author had found a fitful 
market for his short stories with Clement Frazer, then 
editing an obscure weekly and on the look out for dramatic 
stuff by an unknown man at the lowest price. He prided 
himself on “discovering” Torquil and this influenced his 
decision. Lacking social experience, he believed that 
Quenched Fires was a faithful portrait of the set that gath- 
ered round the author's wife. As a matter of fact the book 
belonged to that class of “society novel” which relies on 
exaggeration and caricature for its effect. For Torquil, in 
his bitterness, had ridiculed the well-known folk who 
nodded to him and passed on. 

Arkwright divined the hidden malice and rubbed his hands 
well pleased. Here was the very type of novel he himself 
had recommended. He congratulated Torquil warmly: 

“Excellent, my dear chap! The best thing you’ve done 
so far. You show up the vices and the folly of the people 
in the swim but take a firm line yourself on the question of 
morality. It will win you the Nonconformist Press. Just 
look what they did for Carrie Morell? Made her! That 
portrait of old General Merton is very funny. Yes, I 
guessed that!” He chuckled and raised his glass to Torquil, 
his guest, that day, at Arkwright’s favourite resort for 
lunch. “I prophesy a big success.” 

Yet the author, at times, felt nervous. He was having his 
revenge, but what would Fiammetta say? She might smile 
at his portrait of the Puffin, blindly scorching through the 
dust, but there were other, more intimate friends whose 

2 73 


274 


TORQUIL’S SUCCESS 

habits he had parodied. Tant pis ! He shrugged his 
shoulders. His chance meeting with Josephine bad re- 
awakened his vanity and added a spark to his rebellion. 
Josephine had not forgotten. Ah, he could have written 
there! In the tower sacred to Sister Ann, soothed by his 
lady’s gentle presence and her belief in his genius. What a 
blind fool he had been to mistake headlong passion for love 
— the “path of moonlight” for the flame that had scorched 
his self-respect. Although he did not go to see her, Jose- 
phine’s presence haunted the room that overlooked the Chel- 
sea Square, where he would sit with an idle pen, dreaming 
until he became aware of the scent of lavender. His next 
book must be hers — worthy of her inspiration! But his 
energy was spent. He was in the condition all authors know 
when imagination lies fallow* waiting for some door to open 
and reveal new worlds beyond. 

Fiammetta deferred reading the novel until its appear- 
ance in book-form. So she explained to Torquil. She was 
sitting for an Academy portrait and this had reawakened 
her old interest in Art. Music was as dead as Dancing. 
Now, she was to be found at Private Views and studios, the 
centre of a group of critics, learning and passing on her 
knowledge to her faithful court of admirers. She saw very 
little of her husband. She believed him to be immersed in 
his work. But one day she received a letter that puzzled 
and annoyed her from Nan, now married to Trevelyan and 
happy in her country life. She had picked up Frazer’s 
magazine in her dentist’s waiting-room and attracted by 
Torquil’s name on the cover had included it in her list of 
subscriptions. Her indignation knew no bounds as the 
story developed and there appeared a shadowy figure, 
deeply religious, the owner of a dirty house, a bad cook and 
high ideals. It was Lady Mary, dragged through the mud. 
But why? Torquil had received nothing but kindness from 
her hands. Suddenly Nan remembered an amusing mis- 
take at her wedding. Lady Mary, vague as ever, had dis- 
covered Torquil standing alone by the long table covered 


THE VACANT COURTS 


275 


with presents and, in a moment of aberration, had confused 
him with the hired detective. Another man would have 
seen in it merely material for a jest, but Torquil had nursed 
a secret resentment, magnifying the incident. 

A month passed, bringing with it further instalments of 
the novel, Fiammetta watchful but silent. One evening, the 
storm broke. 

They had dined alone in comparative silence and were 
smoking over their coffee, safe from further interruption. 
Fiammetta emptied her cup, extinguished the end of her 
cigarette and looked up. 

“I’ve been reading your serial, Torquil.” 

“Really?” He tried to appear indifferent. “I’m flattered ! 
I thought you were waiting until you could have it in book 
form.” He added, too lightly, “How does it strike you?” 

“I am amazed at your lack of taste.” Her voice was 
calm but the sense of her anger invaded Torquil, a menace 
that filled the silent room. He braced himself for the corn 
flict. 

“I don't in the least follow you.” 

“No?” Her wonderful eyes narrowed. She looked at 
her husband with open contempt. “How dare you ridicule 
my friends?” 

“Dare?” He echoed the word, head thrown back, chin 
thrust forward. “I suppose an author has the right to 
select his own characters? Naturally I take as my models 
the people who come to our house.” 

“My house.” For the first time in their married life she 
swept aside the polite subterfuge. 

“Exactly.” He saw his chance. “The reason why my 
books have to pay. I take the 'copy' I see around me, in 
the hope that shortly I may be relieved from my present 
painful position of being forced to live at a rate that far 
exceeds what I earn.” He leaned forward, arrogant. “You 
must understand this is your wish. Not mine. I should 
prefer your keeping your money and that I should take my 
proper place as your husband and master of the house. But 


276 TORQUIL’S SUCCESS 

this would entail a modest establishment in the suburbs, 
with strict economy.” 

She gave a low scornful laugh. 

“I can see you living there! The great Torquil — in 
lodgings at Acton. I’m afraid it would spoil your position 
with Arkwright, who has such a — delicate discrimination 
where his authors are concerned. But the point is not our 
manner of living. When I married you, I made it plain 
that we should share a common purse. You remember, 
that was the arrangement?” Torquil winced but she went 
on, each word clearly articulated, no tremor in the delicate 
hands clasped lightly on the table. “I believed then that 
I could trust you to behave like a nsjan of honour. I have 
met a good many authors, men of mark, and have read their 
booksf. What you say may be true — that their characters 
are drawn from life — but the identity of the subjects is not^ 
made common property. In your case the victims of your 
ill-placed wit require no names. There is no mistaking 
Lady Mary — a woman to whom you are indebted and whose 
daughter claims to be your friend. If it had not been for 
her kindness, you would never have come to my house. 
She is a part of that success for which you are ready to sell 
your soul. But there are worse things in your book.” Her 
voice rose with a note of anger. “You have caricatured old 
General Merton — a gallant old soldier respected by all. 
You even localize his house and mention his lameness, the 
result of a wound received in the Boer War. And only last 
week we dined with him! You sat there and enjoyed a 
poor man’s hospitality — for in these days he is poor — know- 
ing that you had painted him as a senile, foolish old man 
gloating over past glories.” 

“I did not!” Torquil flung back. “I showed him as 
he is. A man with one foot in the grave, yet to be found at 
every dance hobbling round with the prettiest girl! It’s 
ridiculous, and the sooner he knows it, the better. He is a 
figure of fun. Besides that, he’s the type that nearly lost 
us the war, full of hide-bound prejudices and exploded army 
tactics. He’s fair ‘copy’ to any author.” 


THE VACANT COURTS 277 

“Yet you can eat his bread and salt?” Her face was in- 
credulous. 

“ 'By courtesy’ only.” Torquil sneered. “I go there 
in your train. Why should I be grateful to him?” 

“Why should you go? There’s no compulsion. If you 
feel like that — unwanted — surely your pride would show you 
a way of evading the invitation ?” She paused for a moment, 
studying the morose face of the man before her, feeling 
the gulf grow between them. Her manner changed. All 
trace of her anger disappeared. She was now his judge, 
dispassionate and merciless. “Torquil, I’m going to speak 
plainly. You have been given every chance. When I 
married, all the doors of my friends were thrown wide to 
receive my husband. But your vanity blinded you to their 
welcome. You were gauche, surly and suspicious. You 
wished to be feted for yourself as a great man — the coming 
author. You were not great. I doubt now if you ever will 
achieve greatness. A man who prostitutes his talent for 
the sake of indulging his private spite has sold his literary 
birthright. You have written nothing which can compare 
to the strength that marked your earliest work. You have 
lost touch with the truth, through your inordinate desire 
for personal recognition. For you do not love your work 
for itself. It is a ladder for your ambition. You use people 
and throw them aside, sneering at those who are well-bred, 
yet ashamed of your own origin. You treat the world as 
you treated your parents. Yes, I know your history.” 

She averted her eyes on the final words, obeying an im- 
pulse as old as the name she had laid down in taking 
Torquil’s. She could strike' hard, but she could not stoop 
to enjoy the sight of her foe unhorsed. She rose, finding 
relief in action, and moved across to a bureau that stood 
with its back to the window. Torquil, stunned, followed 
her movements as a dog watches for the whip. 

She knew But his brain refused to act. It was 

paralysed by the sudden blow. He saw her pull out a 
narrow drawer, feel behind the pigeon-holes and extract 
from this secret hiding-place an envelope carefully sealed. 


278 


TORQUIL’S SUCCESS 

She broke it open. Inside was a photograph; a group 
composed of five men in their early youth, taken at Cam- 
bridge. She laid it down in front of Torquil. 

“I found this among my brother’s papers. Signed. The 
names are written beneath. The one you bear is a common 
one. I had never before connected it with a certain story 
of Cambridge days — of a friendship that proved unworthy. 
Jinks had no secrets from me. Thank God, he died without 
knowing. But I have known — all these years.” 

There came a sudden interruption. The servant entered 
with a salver on which was a note for Fiammetta. 

She frowned as she took it. 

“Any answer?” 

The man explained nervously that the bearer had not 
waited. She nodded and he retired, bearing the salver like 
a shield pressed against his wounded heart. He greatly 
admired his mistress and she rarely spoke to him so sharply. 

Torquil, with a feeling of nightmare, watched his wife 
read the note. Even now, in his despair, his trained percep- 
tions recognized the sloping letters of the address written 
with a pointed pen. It was from Pierre de Lusignan. 

She was so still that he wondered. Her lips were parted, 
incredulous; the lowered lids of her eyes hid from him 
her secret thoughts. Not a muscle of her body moved. At 
last she folded the single sheet and replaced it in its envelope. 
She seemed to have forgotten Torquil. She stood there, 
staring into space. He could bear the strain no longer. 

“Fiammetta?” 

She gave a start and a faint colour stole into her cheeks. 
Her eyes were so filled with light when she turned them 
bewildered, to his face that he thought of transparent sea- 
water, the sunshine piercing a summer wave. 

“Oh!” She glanced from him to the clock. “Yes — 
it’s time they cleared away.” And with this absurd, inade- 
quate phrase, she went out, leaving him alone. 

Alone — with his rancour and amazement. What could 
you make of a woman like that, who could forget her accusa- 
tions — words that had bitten into the flesh — and dismiss the 


THE VACANT COURTS 


279 


subject in this fashion, her whole mind and soul elsewhere? 

Remote? She had always been remote. He had never 
possessed her, not for a second. Only the beautiful shell, in 
which her spirit dwelt eternally apart from him. Was it be- 
cause she thought her husband beneath contempt? Torquil 
writhed at this first sign of his awakening intuition. His 
eyes fell on the photograph, faded but recognizable; on 
Lyddon, the tall, central figure and his own, cross-legged 
at his hero’s feet, Boscawen, playing the fool on his left, with 
Ctoft, a hand on Torquil’s shoulder laughing because old 
Davernant had sneezed just as the shutter snapped. How 
it all came back to him, those short-lived hours of his 
triumph when he had been Lyddon’s friend! Ghosts — all 
those clear-skinned boys, with their laughter and dreams 
and their undimmed hopes, their careless belief in the future. 

And now. . . . 

She had known, all these years ; as she lay by his side in 
the great gold bed, Lyddon’s face mocking him. Torquil’s 
head went down on his hands, shrinking from the shaded 
lights and the picture of that room which belonged to his 
wife, its luxury and its perfect taste. “My house.” He 
could hear her voice, cool, controlled, with that faint amuse- 
ment more wounding than any anger. For a space, in which 
Time ceased to count, he drained the cup of bitterness. 
Then, like a sudden flash of light across the black depths of 
despair came the first stir of imagination. If he were writ- 
ing this ? There must be some way out. Deliberately 

he thrust aside reality and turned to fiction. Of course l 
His head came up with a jerk, his forehead wrinkled in 
the effort of concentration. The victim would vindicate 
himself, easily, without manner of doubt. He would show 
that the blood in his veins was as noble as that of the woman 
who scorned him. And Torquil could do the same. 

Squire Pomfret’s son! He was sure of it. A bastard — 
as Oliphant had called him in those far-off days of his child- 
hood and of their fight behind the wood stack — but her 
equal, on his father’s side. If he could prove this wild 
romance, it would put the dead man in the wrong. He 


280 


TORQUIL’S SUCCESS 

could face Fiammetta then, the old lie that had followed him 
like a snake from his college days slain. 

Now he searched the photograph eagerly for some re- 
semblance in that youthful portrait of himself, to the man 
who had paid for his schooling. No, there was no help 
here. He noticed with a touch of scorn that yet held some- 
thing tender in it — the tenderness which youth evokes — 
the length of his hair, brushed back, without parting, from 
his forehead. In those days he had written verses. A ribald 
memory tripped him up. Of an evening stroll down King’s 
Parade in which his “hyacinthine locks” had evoked the 
jeers of a party of Freshmen following noisily in his wake. 
He could hear now the irreverent chorus as they swung 
behind him, arm in arm : 

“Go and get yer hair cut, yer hair cut, yer hair cut ! . . .” 

It annoyed him, even at this distance, an insult to his dig- 
nity and the status of an author. 

He picked up the photograph and hid it in an inner 
pocket. With a glance at the clock, he switched off the 
lights. Half-way up the stairs he paused. As he crossed 
the landing outside her room, he heard the key of his wife’s 
door turn sharply in the lock. He laughed aloud. He 
hoped she had heard him. He didn’t care. His passion was 
dead. He reached his study and began a hunt for the 
A.B.C. Here it was ! He turned the pages hurriedly until he 
came to Ovingdale. The 9.40? That would do. By 
twelve he would be with his mother, in that prim parlour 
over the shop with its suite of walnut furniture and the 
enlarged photographs of his parents — the man he hated — 
adding the last touch of provincial respectability to the ugly 
but prosperous room. He could feel again the irritation of 
a certain chair in hard plush that pricked the back of his 
bare calves as he balanced himself on the edge of it, holding 
an illustrated Bible that formed his Sunday literature, and 
hear his mother’s frightened whisper: “Don’t fidget, dear. 
You’ll wake Father.” 

His mother An odd stab of pain and revolt ran 

through Torquil. With the pitiless vision of the writer, he 


THE VACANT COURTS 


281 


could see her face, incredulous, then broken up with joy 
and pain as he stood before her, “raised from the dead”; 
her fear of the man who was her master, her still more tragic 
fear of himself. Fear — the keynote of his boyhood. 

He shivered, aware that it haunted him still. It had 
underlain his avoidance of passion in the early days of his 
struggle with life. Now, thank God, he was free of that! 
Freed, for ever, from Fiammetta and the old ache of desire. 
It had gone with this last blow to his pride. Ah, he would 
humble her now, this wife of his who resembled her brother. 
He would make her take back her words. As to his mother, 
it was justice. She had cast the shadow over his life by 
her early weakness — passion again ! He could not afford to 
be merciful. 


CHAPTER XXIV 


T ORQUIL sat in the bay-window of the Mitre Hotel 
at Ovingdale. He had the coffee-room to himself, 
for the hour was late, and the waiter, after serving 
him, had retired to his own midday meal. 

The table, with its battered silver, commanded a view of 
the main street through a gauze screen of rusty black that 
shut out the gaze of the passers-by. The Mitre prided itself 
on being patronized by “the county”; a convenient halting- 
place in its visits for shopping or local business. Its garage 
and stabling were excellent and it boasted a decent cellar 
which compensated for poor cooking. Lapped in the pleasant 
coma of age and secure from competition, the Mitre rested 
on its laurels and once a year awoke to life, on the night of 
the Masonic Dinner. 

Torquil had chosen it as being the least likely place in the 
town for unwelcome recognition. Facing him, across the 
road, was the County Bank with the same air of waiting for 
the Resurrection. A brand-new “International Stores” — 
an eye-sore of brick and terra-cotta — flanked it. Then the 
crooked line of ancient shops began again. From where he 
sat, he could catch in the distance a glimpse of the one that 
had sheltered his youth, saw-dust oozing from the doorway 
and a carcase conspicuously exposed beside the half-empty 
counter. He knew that the owner had retired to the little 
room behind the shop where the faint, sour smell of meat per- 
sisted and still lingered in Torquil’s nostrils. He tingled at 
the recollection of the morning’s scene in that narrow space, 
anger still his most vivid emotion. It had survived the sense 
of shock. 

For his mother was dead — had been dead four years — 
and the butcher had found a fresh wife in the shape of the 

282 


283 


THE VACANT COURTS 

minister’s eldest daughter. This had increased his sense of 
power. A man of means and a shining light in chapel circles, 
he met Torquil, not on equal grounds, but as his superior, 
amused by the “prodigal’s” pretensions. There was no doubt 
of the butcher’s success — a “warm man” in Ovingdale. 

From first to last he had held his own, flatly refusing 
to satisfy Torquil. He resented this indecent attempt to 
trouble “the peace of the grave.” Nevertheless, he showed 
no desire to confirm his own share in the young man’s birth, 
nor to kill the fatted calf for a son who had shadowed the 
last days of a wife duly mourned and supplanted. Let the 
dead bury the dead. He pointed out the fact that Torquil, 
by his callous indifiference to the feelings of his parents, had 
forfeited any further claim to consideration. 

To Torquil’s success he paid no tribute. An author? 
Hm ! The “line” might suit him. He had always been 
ready with a “lie and a flimsy yarn,” as a child, to cover 
his misdemeanours. He was “good at his schooling” cer- 
tainly, but “book-learning” wasn’t all. He wouldn’t have 
made an honest tradesman. A good thing he had cut adrift. 
He wasn’t wanted in Ovingdale. 

Ovingdale ! — Torquil had laughed in his face. Unwisely 
he launched out on the change in his circumstances. The 
butcher listened, unmoved, with an inward conviction of 
roguery somewhere, and a marriage that was the result of 
the loose morals peculiar to London. He took it with a 
grain of salt, this glib and amazing story, but was not back- 
ward in his opinion when Torquil, at last, paused for breath. 

“So that’s the reason you lay hid, whilst your mother 
was breaking her heart for you ? Ashamed of your parents, 
eh? Amongst all your fine new friends. Us — as paid for 
your education, and stinted ourselves to bring you up.” 
His heavy face worked suddenly. “She was crying out for 
you at the end.” As though he dreaded the memory, he 
let loose his pent-up wrath : “Get out of my house ! I’ve 
done with you. May God above judge between us and 
humble your pride in the dust!” 

So sudden was the onslaught that Torquil retreated. 


284 


TORQUIL’S SUCCESS 

The past, revived, threatened to engulf the present. He 
shrank before the man who had bullied him and his mother 
— “for her soul’s good” — from that clenched hand with 
its white flesh on which the hairs shone like copper, and 
the gross body, vibrant with passion. But on the threshold, 
he turned round, aware of his lost dignity. 

“I owe you nothing! You’re not my father. Squire 
Pomfret paid for my education.” 

“Oh, you know tliat?” stormed the butcher. “Then you’d 
best ask him to tell you the rest !” 

“I will,” said Torquil, between his teeth. 

Now, as he played with the food before him, he realized 
that his boast held the remaining shred of hope. He would 
tackle Squire Pomfret. He took another glass of wine — it 
would need all his courage. He had ordered Burgundy, 
though he would have preferred beer, mindful of a chance 
remark treasured from his early days anent the cellars of 
the Mitre and “the gentry’s” opinion of its wine. As he 
put down his glass, the door opened and he heard the land- 
lord’s voice : “No trouble, sir.” Then a louder one which 
stirred a chord of memory: “Bread and cheese — that’s all 
I want! Last time I was here you had a Stilton in prime 
condition. Any left? Oh, and, Hodgson, a pint of stout. 
See to my mare. I shall want her again at four o’clock.” 

Torquil turned his head. He saw a man who looked like 
a groom, but a head groom, lord of the stables. From his 
stock to his worn gaiters, sport and the intimate knowledge 
of horse-flesh seemed to emanate, unmistakable. His face 
was square and red, the skin full of tiny congested veins, 
much wrinkled about the eyes under a low and stubborn 
brow. He had close-clipped, insignificant whiskers and a 
long upper lip that disdained moustache and betrayed hu- 
mour. He was slightly bow-legged but moved briskly and 
he carried under his arm a parcel bound with odd bits of 
string. 

Torquil quickly averted his gaze as the landlord steered 
his guest with every mark of deference to a table in the 
farther window. 


THE VACANT COURTS 


285 


“Just like a book,” thought the author. “Enter the long- 
lost parent! The reviewers would say ‘Coincidence/ but 
it saves me a ten-mile drive.” 

He would not admit to himself he was nervous. The 
shadow of the past again! Squire Pomfret of Pomfret’s 
Folly, a notable figure in Ovingdale. But, in London, a 
nonentity. He finished the bottle, preparing his speech. 

The shell of the Stilton cheese appeared, carried in by 
the waiter, still munching. 

“Good!” cried the Squire and attacked it. He buried 
his nose in the silver tankard, drank thirstily, gave a “Ha !” 
and wiped the froth from his long lip. 

The waiter hovered and disappeared. Silence fell on the 
time-stained room. Torquil felt a paralysis creeping over 
his long limbs. With an effort, he rose from the table. 
Squire^Jomfret looked up with a fleeting glance that dis- 
missed the young man from his attention and dived into 
the cheese again. ^As Torquil approached he heard him 
grunt, withdrawing a greenish chunk triumphantly on the 
point of his knife. 

“I don’t think you remember me, sir? It’s a good 
many years since we met.” 

“Damn !” said the Squire. The cherished morsel had 
fallen back into the crater. He stared blankly at the in- 
truder. “Afraid I don’t,” he pronounced. 

“No — I didn’t expect you would.” Torquil persevered. 
“I used to live at Ovingdale and at one time you took a 
certain interest in me. In fact, I believe you paid for my 
schooling. Through my mother.” He gave her name. 

“Bless my soul!” said the Squire. “Poor Lottie’s son! I 
shouldn’t have known you.” His eyes ran over the well- 
dressed figure. “Sit down. Just a moment ” He sal- 

vaged the cheese. “Now ! So you’re back again ? I thought 

you were d ” He pulled himself up and substituted, “I 

heard you were in the war. But that’s ancient history now. 
I suppose you’re thinking of settling down? Your father’s 
got a good business — one of the best in the town.” 

“He is not my father,” said Torquil. 


286 


TORQUIL’S SUCCESS 

The Squire gave him a shrewd glance. 

“You mean Well, of course, he’s married again but 

you can’t blame a man for that. Just pass me that butter? 
Thanks.” He went on in a low voice, “A loss. We were 
fond of your mother. She nursed my poor wife, you 
know. Like an angel ! I’ve never forgotten it. Well — 
tell me about yourself You weren’t here for the funeral?” 

“No.” Torquil hesitated. “I didn’t know until to-day 
that she was dead.” 

“Hm ! Shock for you.” In his sympathy and his reserve 
the Squire took refuge in his tankard. As Torquil made no 
response, he looked up over the rim. “And you, now? 
Married, hey?” 

“Yes, I’m married and living in London. Perhaps you 
may have heard of my wife? She was the only sister of 
the late Lord Talgarth.” 

The Squire stared. 

“The devil she was! They’re connected with my fam- 
ily — on my mother’s side. A Lyddon? Bless my soul!” 
He paused, digesting the strange news. “And it seems 
only the other day that you rode up in your father’s cart 
to show me a prize you’d taken at school, tucked in by 
your mother. Poor Lottie!” 

Torquil frowned. The affair was not going as he wished. 

“I made good use of my schooling. After the war I 
started to write and I’ve had a considerable success. With 
novels — under the name of Torquil.” 

“Indeed?” The Squire’s face was blank. “I expect my 
girls have read ’em. I don’t go in for novels myself — not 
unless I’m ill in bed. Then the old ones do for me. 
Thackeray — and I’m fond of Sterne, though Surtees beats 
the lot. But this modern stuff is beyond me. All the same, 
I congratulate you. Any children?” 

Torquil saw an opening. 

“No. Before I have children, I must be certain on one 
point. It brought me to Ovingdale to-day, but without 
results. I believe, sir, that you know the whole story. I’m 


THE VACANT COURTS 287 

going to ask you to tell me the truth. I’ve a right to it. 
Who was my father?” 

The Squire’s knife rattled down upon his plate. He was 
surprised at the turn of affairs. 

“Your mother didn’t tell you, hey?” He spoke rather 
testily. This persistent young man was spoiling his lunch. 
Without waiting for an answer he concluded in his harsh 
voice, “Well, it’s her secret, not mine.” 

“She’s dead,” said Torquil. 

Squire Pomfret grunted, his mouth full of cheese. 

“All the more reason to respect it.” 

“For you/' Torquil leaned on the word. “Since you 
refuse to enlighten me, I can only draw one conclusion.” 

So far was the Squire from the speaker’s intention that 
it took a minute for the speech to attain its full significance. 
He stared at Torquil, puzzled, annoyed, finally dumb- 
founded. His face grew purple, his eyes protruding. 

“Damn your impudence !” he spluttered. “You may 
have run away with a Lyddon but you’re no child of mine, 
thank God ! So you got that into your head, did you ? A 
folly of my youth, hey?” His sense of humour mastered 
his anger, and he laughed until the ceiling rang. “It’s like 
a page out of Roderick Random. Bless my soul! I must 
tell old Monkton — that’ll cure him of his gout!” 

Torquil had sprung to his feet. He was white with anger 
and mortification. 

“Since you deny it, give me proofs!” He shouted, his 
limbs shaking. 

“I’d give you a jolly good hiding, young feller,” the 
Squire retorted, wiping his eyes, “if I were a few years 
younger. In my salad days again, what?” He chuckled. 
“Proofs? Well, you shall have ’em. A letter from your 
precious father.” 

“His name?” Torquil’s throat was dry, his body tense 
with a strange fear. 

“Dupont — Henri Dupont. You’re like him — the same 
shaped head. He wasn’t a bad-looking chap. Clever as 


2 88 


TORQUIL’S SUCCESS 

paint, no morals, but the best valet I ever had.” A touch 
of pity sobered the Squire, for Torquil had clutched the 
back of the chair. It was evident that he suffered. “Sit 
down!” The old man spoke gruffly. ‘Til tell you, if 
you’ll give up that air of holding a pistol at my head ! I’ve 
been a good friend to your mother and you’ve no right to 
think otherwise. But she got into trouble under my roof 
and my wife chose to blame herself for throwing the pair 
of them together.” He drained his tankard. “Now, are 
you going to listen to me?” 

Torquil, still standing, nodded. The Squire deliberately 
finished the remaining piece of cheese on his plate, cleared 
his throat and began : 

“It happened abroad. The doctor had ordered my wife 
South and I took a Villa at Mentone. Your mother had 
been her maid six years — a treasure, devoted in sickness, a 
pretty girl and refined. She was going to be married to a 
young butcher in the town but, at my wife’s entreaty, she 
put it off until the spring. He was a smug, pious chap, 
keen on work and chapel-going and he cut up rough at her 
going abroad. Disapproved of all foreigners — ‘Sabbath- 
breakers,’ he called ’em!” A twinkle came into the Squire’s 
eyes. “But I saw him myself and smoothed things over. 
They could count on a solid wedding-present. We went. 
I’d engaged the Villa servants. A cook — a damned bad 
one, too — and Dupont, who waited at table, valeted me and 
so forth. In fact, he ran the place. There was nothing 
he couldn’t do, from making an excellent omelet to teaching 
me an ‘infallible system’ by which I lost money at the 
tables!” The Squire chuckled again at the memory. “An 
extraordinary chap — looked like a French nobleman and 
had served a full term in prison for robbing a former 
master. But this only came out later. He didn’t rob me, 
so I forgive him ! Lord, I can taste his salads now.” He 
paused for breath. He was fond of spinning a yarn, but his 
daughters rarely permitted him to do so at home without 
interruption. Torquil made no comment, but his eyes were 
fixed on the speaker’s throat. There was murder in his 


THE VACANT COURTS 


289 


heart. “Well, where was I?” said the Squire. “Oh yes! 
We’d been there three months when my wife’s mother 
died and we had to bolt back to England. No time to pack 
up and hand over the Villa, — hurry, confusion, wild plans. 
Lottie offered to stay behind and see to everything with 
Dupont, who was certainly capable. If I’d guessed how 
matters stood I’d have pitched him out by the scruff of his 
neck! Eventually she came home and the trouble began. 
To cut a long story short, she confessed to my wife that 
Dupont had made love to her from the start and had over- 
come her scruples. He’d made her the usual promises, was 
coming to England and so forth, but now the rogue had 
stopping writing, and she was going to have a child. 

“Well, my wife was goodness itself. Although horribly 
shocked at it all, her one idea was to save Lottie from the 
disgrace and village gossip. It seemed unbelievable! As 
straight a girl as ever walked, up to that season at Mentone. 
Climate, perhaps? God knows!” The Squire left it to 
his Maker and continued with his story. “I wrote to the 
owner of the Villa. Dupont had gone — taken a place at 
Contrexeville. A doctor I knew there made inquiries 
through some police official — that’s how the prison record 
came out. It also transpired that Dupont was married, but 
had left his wife and family to fend for themselves in 
Marseilles. No hope of restitution there. It nearly broke 
poor Lottie’s heart. She was head over ears in love with 
the fellow. There remained the local suitor. My wife and 
I talked it over and the butcher seemed the only hope. 
Lottie was like a dead thing, utterly helpless and prostrated 
but willing to take our advice. I saw the man and told him 
the truth. I must say he behaved well, according to his own 
lights. He would marry her and ‘save her soul,’ by driving 
home her repentance! I remember the term he used: to 
‘scourge out Satan.’ Horrible! What a basis for married 
life. I think now we were wrong, but what was the poor 
girl to do? There were no war babies then. It was ruin, 
or a hasty marriage. Bad luck ! A damn fine girl.” The 
Squire drew out a faded bandanna and blew his nose 


290 


TORQUIL’S SUCCESS 

vigorously. “Anyhow you didn’t suffer. When you were 
born I told Lottie she could look to me for your education. 
The butcher approved. Next to religion, he loved money. 
I’ve often noticed it goes together — long prayers and parsi- 
mony. Though they’ll talk by the hour to you of ‘riches 
in the next world’ !” He grunted. “Well, that’s the truth. 
I hope I’ve done wisely in telling you. But don’t think 
hardly of the dead. She was an excellent mother to you 
and I’ve an idea that she paid in full for those weeks of 
sunshine and folly. The man was a born charmer. Mind 
you, he had his good points, but women were his weakness. 
Personal vanity! There was a woman at the bottom of 
that prison affair. His master’s clothes happened to fit 
him and he yielded to the temptation. He never took 
anything of mine. Brains without doubt. Gad, I wish I 
had ’em !” He rose heavily to his feet. “I must go. I’ve 
got to see a lawyer and wrestle with the Income Tax. This 
damned Government’s always changing the form of the 
burden laid on us. If you’ll give me your address, I’ll send 
you that letter from Dupont — the answer to mine at Con- 
trexeville. It’s uncommonly well written. I kept it as a 
curio. Just as well perhaps, hey?” 

Torquil, too unnerved to respond to the grim jest, 
searched for a card and passed it across the table. The 
Squire’s face as he read the address was a study. Torquil 
could guess his thoughts. Dazed, he found himself shaking 
hands with the patron of his youth and standing aside to let 
him pass. He knew that the hearty grip of those hard 
fingers was solely due to the memory of his dead mother 
and her years of faithful service. It added the last touch 
to his bitter sense of impotence. 

As he moved back to his old table, he caught again that 
loud voice in the hall, shouting for the landlord. Then the 
familiar stocky form was visible through the gauze screen, 
with the threadbare cap, and splashed gaiters that accen- 
tuated the curve of the legs. The Squire vanished down 
the street, and Torquil awoke from his nightmare. He must 
get out of Ovingdale, where every stone in the place mocked 


THE VACANT COURTS 291 

him. That was his most urgent need. But he couldn’t go 
back to Fiammetta. He must think 

By back streets, he made his way to the station and took 
the next train to London, a slow one with frequent halts. 
He had ample leisure for thought. He decided to call at 
the house, slip up to his room, pack a bag and go for the 
night, at least, to his Chelsea room. He could make up some 
cock-and-bull story to satisfy Miss Withers. He shrank at 
present from facing the truth, but in vain, he tried to 
escape from the memory of his interviews with the old 
arbiters of his boyhood. The light faded out of the sky 
and a storm of hail lashed the windows of the empty car- 
riage where he sat. It was better than sunshine. It fitted 
in with his mood of revolt, of blind hatred for the man to 
whom he owed his existence. Henri Dupont — a French 
valet ! With the vices of his race, its pitiless logic and swift 
thought ; its lack of depth — like his last novel ! A man 
who had missed his mark through “personal vanity” — he 
recalled the Squire’s judgment. What was it Fiammetta 
had said? “Your inordinate desire for personal recog- 
nition.” 

By God, he would be equal with them! They belonged 
to the same class, his wife and that fuddled old Squire; to 
a country rotted by tradition. But the era of their power 
had passed, swept away on the tide of war. Everywhere, 
all over the world, Democracy was winning the race. The 
People now held the reins. The prophecy of his earlier 
work was being fulfilled. He saw himself once more the 
hero of that book written in his squalid lodgings. He 
would go back to his old faith, deny himself and become 
again the preacher of the Rights of Man, superior to caste 
and the power of money. 

To hell with Society! He remembered the artist at 
La Turbie: “Cut adrift! It’s your only chance.” At 
any rate that father of his had bequeathed to him his full 
share of brains. France was the birth-place of the novel. 
His spirits rose. In imagination he outlined future tri- 
umphs. Torquil — the great author ! What need had he of 


292 


TORQUIL’S SUCCESS 

another name? He worked himself up until his mood pro- 
duced a physical reaction. By the time he reached Park 
Lane, he was spent like a man after a battle. With infinite 
weariness, he slipped his latch-key into the door and stole 
into the quiet house. 

Why was it so quiet? Fiammetta must be out. No 
sound came from the drawing-room as he passed, mounting 
the stairs on tiptoe. He entered his study and switched on 
the light. Against the clock was propped a letter addressed 
to him in his wife’s writing. Frowning, he read the con- 
tents. They were curt and to the point. She was off to 
spend a week with Nan. Her movements later were uncer- 
tain. She would forward an address as soon as her plans 
were settled. In any case she did not intend to return to 
London before the season. 

Relief swept over Torquil, followed by hopeless inde- 
cision. It was a struggle between his pride and his frayed 
nerves. His head was throbbing, his limbs seemed weighted 
down with iron. All power of initiative had left him. 
Here, at least, were rest and comfort. Yes, but Fiammetta 
paid. 

Through the open door beyond, he could see in shadow 
his dressing-room, familiar and inviting. The ray of light 
that filtered in touched the backs of his silver brushes and 
the polish of old mahogany. It played, too, on the gleaming 
surface of his bath with its shining taps. He became 
suddenly aware of the smuts that had blown in from the 
engine, the grit and dirt of his long journey. His eyes fell 
on the row of boots, each pair neat on its trees, on his 
dressing-gown of quilted silk, his slippers in soft morocco, 
the heels turned in. Absurd that slippers should hold a 
note of tenderness! Yet all these symbols of luxury were 
like voices raised in chorus, in a discreet but loving welcome. 
He groaned, stumbled across the threshold and threw him- 
self, vanquished, on his bed. 


CHAPTER XXV 


W EEK slowly succeeded week but Fiammetta did 
not return. 

Torquil, once more, saw the pageant of Spring, 
with its laughter and its light tears, dance through the 
Park beneath his windows. The rhododendrons were in 
bloom in the farther side of the Row, filled each morning 
with cavaliers. He avoided the crowded hours and took his 
walks abroad at dusk. He lived the life of a hermit, but 
without the consolation of work. He could not write. It 
seemed to him that something had snapped in his brain, 
the subtle cord that bound vision to the power of expression. 
He told himself it was physical, went to the chemist and 
bought a tonic. But the dry rot was in his soul. He could 
not even read for long. Restless, he would close the book, 
get up, and stare through the window. Yet he had not the 
energy to break away from the house. He lived in fear of 
his wife’s return, though sometimes the cloud lifted and 
showed beneath a glimmer of light. W hen she returned, he 
would cut adrift. Meanwhile there was much to consider — 
Arkwright, his new book. 

It was out, had been out ten days. An immediate success. 
His publisher triumphed. He had spared no cost in ad- 
vertisement and the initial subscriptions had doubled those 
of the book before. Already there were “repeat orders.” 

A society paper had pointed out the “indiscretion” of the 
author. People were talking; the sales responded. Tor- 
quil’s portrait met the eye in several well-known weeklies; 
Torquil, his head bent forward, chin propped on his hand 
— to support the weight of his brain — his mouth sardonic, 
eyes veiled in an absent melancholy : “The brilliant author 
of Quenched Fires ” 


293 


294 


TORQUIL’S SUCCESS 

Reading the flattering inscription, Torquil’s vanity re- 
sponded. He hoped that Fiammetta might see it. But 
the old thrill of success was missjng. He had captured the 
public by a trick. He dared not look at his reviews. 

That morning, he had heard from Arkwright asking him 
to call and sign some copies of Quenched Fires for a Charity 
Bazaar. Arkwright was presenting them, with others, to a 
titled lady, who was presiding at the Book-stall. “My 

friend, the Countess of D ,” he called her. Torquil 

sneered as he read it. Better get it over at once! 

He was shown in to Arkwright’s room with every mark 
of deference, the publisher wreathed in smiles. His novel 
was “selling like hot cakes.” A (f real success this time!” 

Torquil looked indifferent. 

“It’s not done so well in America. I’ve just had the 
figures. Disappointing.” 

Arkwright, with a wave of his hand dismissed that 
mighty continent. Unlike Merriman, he had no branch of 
his business there and was therefore less concerned with 
the falling-off in the sales. He suggested glibly an ex- 
cuse: 

“Your story’s too localized, perhaps? A very subtle 
study of London and London society — hardly democratic 
enough in its outlook. They miss the finer shades. No 
need to worry. You’ve arrived. It’s bound to tell in the 
end, across the Atlantic as well.” 

Torquil was not so sure. He had an irritating conviction 
that his earlier sales in America had not depended on 
setting and plot so much as on the fact that his characters 
had “rung true,” were virile, and clean-living. But he 
thought it wiser to agree. 

Arkwright invited his author to lunch but Torquil evaded 
the invitation, also the publisher’s enquiries regarding the 
“book in hand.” He hoped it was “on the same lines.” 
Must “follow up your success, you know.” 

At last Torquil made his escape. He decided to walk 
home. It was one of those soft, blue days when rain in the 
night has washed the streets and London appears at her 


THE VACANT COURTS 


295 


I 

best. Before him, as he emerged from the Strand, the sun- 
shine played on Trafalgar Square with an absence of harsh 
contrasts rarely seen in dryer lands. The creamy white of 
old stone and the dark note of the lions were softened by 
haze against the low faqade of the National Gallery with, 
above, a sky void of clouds but veiled, too, a delicate azure. 
He paused for a moment to drink in the scene, refreshing 
to his tired eyes; for, of late, he had slept badly. 

“Hullo, Torquil !” 

Startled, he turned. Nan was laughing up at him, fully 
aware of his surprise and of his swift embarrassment. 

“You didn’t expect to see me, did you? I’m up in town 
for a week, shopping. With Jake — we’re staying at the 
Cecil. I saw you, lost in dreams, and I felt I must say a 
word. I want to congratulate you on the success of your 
new book. It’s a scream!” Her eyes were bright with 
malice as she ran on breathlessly, “You know, I never 
thought that you would be good at a burlesque. But it’s 
awfully clever; that scene at Boodle’s — Jake nearly had a 
fit! And all written so seriously as if it were real life. 
Your hero, too, adored by women and always giving them 
‘noble advice.’ He is an ass, isn’t he, Torquil? It’s a tour 
de force! Like a picture of London society drawn by a 
curate in the suburbs !” She laughed, standing squarely be- 
fore him in her countrified clothes, her cheeks browned by 
open air and exercise, determined to ^fiow her supreme dis- 
dain for his covert attack on Lady Mary. 

“I’m glad it appeals to you,” said Torquil. “Of course 
you’re a good judge of a book.” 

He looked at her insolently but she showed no sign of 
resentment. 

“Fiammetta still away?” The question seemed to amuse 
her as it slipped from her lips. 

“She’s at Brighton with Lady Letts.” He tried to appear 
indifferent. “But they talk about a fortnight in Paris. 
Frocks, I suppose, for the season? If they go, I may 
run over and join them.” 

Nan narrowed her brown eyes, a trick Torquil remem- 


296 TORQUIL’S SUCCESS 

bered. What was she deliberating? She did not leave him 
long in doubt. 

“Pierrot’s there — so he wrote to Jake. I should think 
he’s relieved that his wife’s no more! They didn’t hit it 
off, you know.” 

“Dead?” He felt vaguely uneasy. 

“Didn’t you hear? Months ago. He’s chucked Diplo- 
macy and gone back to live at his place in France. A 
ripping old chateau near the Loire. He’s invited us to stay 
with him, but Jake’s so difficult to move. Simply hates 
travelling.” She glanced at her watch. “I must fly ! We’re 
going to lunch with Mum and Billy. Good-bye, Torquil! 
Congratulations. Give us another funny book!” With a 
gay nod she passed on. 

“He didn’t enjoy that ” she thought. “Serve him right! 
He’s a mass of conceit. I must tell Jake.” Her smile faded 
and was replaced by an air of married wisdom that sat 
quaintly on her youthful face. “No, I don’t think I will. 
Men are — queer!” 

Meanwhile Torquil narrowly missed another unwelcome 
encounter as he strode on up Pall Mall. Outside the Army 
and Navy Club, General Merton stood chatting with a 
friend. Torquil hurriedly crossed the road. Almost un- 
consciously, he wheeled to the left, past Marlborough House, 
away from the crowded streets peopled with his enemies. 
He was furiously angry with Nan. And what was wrong 
with that scene at Boodle’s? He had never been put up 
for a club, aware of his social deficiencies. Had he made 
some idiotic slip? He tried to recall what he had written. 
Perhaps it was only Nan’s malice? 

In his absent-mindedness, when he reached the Palace 
he turned south — the old road to Pimlico — and only dis- 
covered his mistake at the corner of Grosvenor Place. A 
clock warned him of the hour. He was looking round for 
an omnibus that would land him at his door, aware of the 
arrested traffic, when his eyes fell on two ladies in a luxu- 
rious car. A cab with luggage stood in the rear, from which 
peered the face of a maid. The block dissolved at this 


THE VACANT COURTS 297 

moment and the car moved forward, carrying with it 
Audrey Letts — and Fiammetta! 

His first sensation was one of relief at having escaped 
recognition ; his next, the need for a definite plan of action 
before returning home. His thoughts in a whirl, he crossed 
the road and jumped upon a bus for Chelsea. He would 
lunch at the little restaurant and take shelter in his room. 
There was no doubt about his feelings. He hated her. His 
hands clenched as he saw again that beautiful face, her air 
as she leaned back against the cushion, indifferent to pass- 
ing glances, so still — so insolently calm. Could nothing 
touch those mysterious depths? No fear — no passion, nor 
remorse ? 

Later, he sat at the rickety table in the window above the 
tennis courts, still searching vainly for a weapon with 
which to pierce his wife’s pride. Leave her? Of course 
he would leave her, but she wouldn’t care! She might be 
glad. He could run away with Josephine? The wild idea 
left his humour untouched but was denounced by his rea- 
son. She was not the woman to be led into any illicit 
adventure. The mere thought was sacrilege. She was not 
soulless, like Fiammetta. No, there was only one thing to 
do. Go back and get it over. Cast her riches in her teeth 
— show his wife he was “tired of her.” 

Yet he shrank from the scene, would have welcomed a 
respite. She had sent no instructions to Park Lane. Per- 
haps she was staying with the Lettses in their big house in 
Berkeley Square? It would be just like her to ignore her 
husband in this fashion; her supreme unconcern for the 
convention so dear to the middle classes. He was still raw 
from his meeting with Nan and her ridicule of his book. 
Had Nan known? Torquil started. He was suddenly con- 
vinced of it. She was expecting Fiammetta, had arranged 
a rendezvous in town. All the events of the morning, like 
those in a Greek tragedy, had been leading up to a climax. 
He could not escape from the final act. 

There came a tap at the door. 

“Come in!” Torquil turned his head. 


298 


TORQUIL’S SUCCESS 

Miss Withers appeared, with a nervous smile. 

“Oh, Mr. Torquil, I’m so distressed, but the window- 
cleaner is here. I wonder — would you mind t He won’t 
come inside the room, and they’re so difficult to get.” She 
was trembling with anxiety. 

“It doesn’t matter. I’m going out.” He rose to his 
feet and picked up his hat. “I may be coming back, later.” 

“Oh, thank you! So unfortunate, but they’re so in- 
dependent now. If I send him away it may be weeks ” 

She hovered, incoherent, on the threshold of the room. 
“Although, if you care to stay, I’ll tell him not to make 
any noise.” With a slap, a ladder came up against the 
nearest window sill, followed by a heavy tread and the 
sound of a man clearing his throat; that dumb protest 
against work of the Briton after his midday meal. Torquil 
fled. 

He found a taxi and gave the address. “For the last 
time,” he told himself bitterly. It was nearly four when he 
reached the house. In the hall, he listened for her voice. 
Silence. He hesitated. No, he couldn’t question the serv- 
ants. He must act as if he expected her. His heart 
thudding, he marched upstairs. The door of her room was 
open. Inside he could see Marie, the French maid, on her 
knees before a big trunk, the bed strewn with filmy garments 
and tissue paper. She was folding a sheet carefully round 
Lyddon’s photograph. He watched her place it in the tray, 
puzzled. She wasn’t unpacking, then? She was taking 
things away. He moved and she looked up with a start. 
As Torquil entered, she rose to her feet. 

“What’s this?” He spoke roughly in his intense nerv- 
ousness. “And where’s your mistress?” It seemed to him 
that the maid eyed him with amusement, but she answered 
him respectfully. 

Madame had sent her to fetch some clothes. As Monsieur 
was probably aware,* they were spending the night with 
Milady and off to Paris in the morning. It would be warm 
in Paris and Madame desired lighter lingerie , besides other 
little trifles — des petits riens , Marie called them. She had 


THE VACANT COURTS 


299 


the list. Madame was resting. She was going to the theatre 
to-night and on to supper afterwards. At the Cecil, Marie 
believed. So Madame had been persuaded to leave every- 
thing in her hands. But there was a message for Monsieur ; 
Madam would write to him from Paris. 

Torquil frowned, digesting the news. 

“What hotel are you going to? The Ritz?” 

This was the usual place where the Puffin sought for 
‘simple comfort/ 

“No, Monsieur. Madame has rooms reserved for us at 
the Meurice ” 

Again he caught a gleam of mischief that passed across 
the black eyes demurely raised to his own, as though a 
frivolous breeze had flicked the surface of a shadowed pool. 
He asked still more aggressively : 

“How long are you staying there?” 

Marie resented his attitude. 

“But, Monsieur, how can I tell?” She threw out her 
hands with a shrug of the shoulders. “Madame’s plans are 
always of the most uncertain.” She picked up some gar- 
ment from the bed, shook it out and proceeded to fold it. 

Torquil disregarded the hint. 

“Are the Lettses staying at the Meurice ?” 

“No, Monsieur, at the Ritz. Monsieur permits that I 
go on packing? I have to be back to dress Madame.” 

Baffled, he retired to his room. What should he do now? 
It was no use going to Berkeley Square. Fiammetta would 
be well guarded. Torquil had no desire to run up against 
the Puffin, another victim of his book. He must wait. 
It was more dignified. Wait for that letter from Paris. 
And answer it. Perhaps it was better so? He could al- 
ways write with more assurance than he could speak. He 
wouldn’t be face to face with his wife. He was conscious 
of a tired relief, beneath which resentment burned. 

So Nan had known and had smiled in her sleeve. That 
supper at the Cecil proved it. He could picture her re- 
counting their meeting to the party gathered round her 
to-night, giving an imitation of Torquil under Trevelyan’s 


300 


TORQUIL’S SUCCESS 

laughing eyes. He remembered Nan’s mimicry at that 
Workman’s Cafe at Tarascon. How he wished he had 
never met her! Link by link, he connected the present 
with that early crisis in his life when he had left Josephine 
after hearing the mad shepherd pipe. The wrath of Pan? 
He began to dream. . . . 

Later, he crept downstairs and into the drawing-room. 
No sound came through the folding doors. Marie had 
finished her task and gone. There was something strange 
about the place. Was it the absence of plants and flowers? 
No — the room had been pilfered. A gap on the mantel- 
piece caught his attention. A bronze statuette was missing. 
A woman on tiptoe, nude, a lyre lying at her feet, hands 
joined and upraised to form a cup. He remembered those 
parted lips, the tilt backward of the head and the exquisite 
tapering arms. He was conscious of a sense of loss, and of 
a rising suspicion. On the wall beyond was a square patch 
of paint brighter than the rest. A picture had been removed. 
He stared at the empty nail. Here had hung a crayon 
sketch of his wife, the work of a famous artist who had 
caught Fiammetta in a mood, rare to her, of melancholy, 
the long lids of her eyes drooping, drooping, too, the curve 
of the lips, heavy shadows in her hair. He had christened 
it “Egypt,” emphasizing the Eastern tilt of the eyebrows 
and that still and brooding beauty of hers. Egypt? Cleo- 
patra. Torquil felt a dull pain, unexpected and bewildering, 
at the revived memory. Yes, the god with the cloven hoof 
had punished him for his vain boast. In every man lurked 
passion. He saw, for a moment, vividly, Pan hiding in the 
reeds, pipe pressed to his shaggy lips. . . . 

With a start, he came back to the present. Why had she 
wanted this cherished sketch, the bronze Sappho invoking 
love, the strip of Stuart embroidery, with its stiff lords, 
hawk on wrist that had lain across the dowry chest ? What 
use could she have for these treasures in Paris? 

The crystal and jade carvings were gone, the little Buddha 
in his shrine, and the snuff-box in Battersea enamel — all the 
tiny, familiar objects she was wont to caress with her fingers 


THE VACANT COURTS 


301 


in passing. He could see them now, with the filbert nails 
that she polished until they shone like shells, transparent, 
faintly tinged with rose. 

He flung himself down on the sofa, a sudden weakness 
invading his limbs. Was she leaving him — of her own 
accord? Why had he not foreseen this, the inevitable con- 
clusion? Leaving him — how the world would smile! He 
could hear old General Merton’s verdict: “A good thing 
too. Serve him right! Can’t imagine what she saw in the 
fellow I” 

Yes, the world would take her part. 

What a fool he had been — a blind fool — to believe she 
would return to him after that bitter scene and her pre- 
cipitate departure! She had robbed him of the last chance 
of vindicating his manhood. He ought to have left the 
house next morning, preserving his dignity; at the very 
least, fled from it when he came back from Ovingdale in 
his cruel disillusion. But, for weeks, he had lived there— 
her pensioner. . . . 

It was too late now. He slipped lower, his head against 
the soft cushion. In the silence of the house he could hear 
the clock on the landing with its deep tick, measuring Time. 
The little house — a great author? He closed his eyes, feel- 
ing the prick of slowly rising tears in them, a sudden 
tightness in his throat. From the silk beneath his cheek, in 
this favourite corner of Fiammetta’s, a ghostly scent rose 
to his nostrils — the haunting, musky scent of her hair. He 
had not the strength to resist it with its host of passionate 
memories. Yet his reason told him he did not love her; 
it was only the link of the flesh. All the love he had was 
given to the woman who first had touched his heart. What 
a mess he had made of his life ! The sweeter, deeper things 
renounced for the sake of ambition. Then, to be tripped 
up by passion. . . . 

Where had she gone? With whom? 


CHAPTER XXVI 


H E knew at last. With fingers that shook, he 
smoothed out the sheets before him and read the 
letter through again. It was headed : 

Chateau de Lusignan 
Pres Chambord 

Loir et Cher 

France 

“Loir should have an *e,’ ” thought Torquil, in error, 
but obeying the subconscious habit of correction, even in 
this pregnant moment. 

Fiammetta wrote in a steady hand : 

“I am living here with Pierrot — shall live with him to 
the end of my life. It may come as a shock to you, but I 
think it will also be a relief. You can’t mix fire and water, 
Torquil. You were never really happy with me. You will 
do better work alone. As you read this letter, think of that. 

“It is not an excuse for my conduct. There is no excuse, 
morally. From first to last, I have deceived you. Pierre 
de Lusignan was my lover for two years before we met — 
the one passion of my life. I should have gone to him long 
ago had it not been for Jinks. I couldn’t destroy his faith 
in me. He never guessed, thank God! This being the 
case, you will wonder why I decided to marry you. I found 
myself in desperate trouble. We had trusted too long to 
our immunity from the laws of Nature. She took full toll ! 
I shouldn’t have cared except for Jinks. The world was 
my playground — nothing more. I could easily have lived 
outside it. But it would have broken my brother’s heart. 
There was only one chance to avoid disaster. Remember, 
I was honest, Torquil. I told you that I didn’t love you, 

302 


THE VACANT COURTS 


303 


but you were willing to take the risk. I chose you for my 
husband because you seemed unusually simple, of obscure 
origin and, apparently, without relations. The marriage 
could take place at once. I believed in your brains and 
capacity for clever work. I hoped we should have this in 
common — a genuine love of beauty in art. I saw in you a 
great writer, hampered by poverty and want of social 
influence. There I knew I could help you — make you, in 
fact, a fitting return by satisfying your ambitions. I mar- 
ried you. A fortnight later came the news of my brother’s 
death and my sacrifice was useless. I had thrown myself 
away for Jinks and Jinks was gone. It nearly killed me. 

“My illness was really a miscarriage, carefully concealed 
from you, my old doctor in the secret. He himself had 
counselled marriage. When I recovered, I honestly tried 
to do my duty, conscious of the debt I owed you. But I 
became disillusioned. You were never a true artist ; your 
ambition was centred in yourself, your work a means to an 
end. Moreover, I knew your history. It wasn’t the fact 
of your lowly birth — I don’t think I’ve ever been a snob — 
but because you were ashamed of your parents. You — 
preaching democracy and covertly sneering at my class ! I 
made inquiries at Ovingdale, after I found that photograph, 
remembering my brother’s story. But I never intended 
you should know it. I had no wish to hurt your feelings 
until you hurt those of my friends in the book that has 
made you popular. Not famous — there’s a difference. 

“On the night that the secret came out, I learnt that 
Pierrot’s wife was dead. I knew then what I should do. 
You can divorce me or not, as you like. Pierrot wishes to 
marry me, but for myself it is immaterial. He has always 
been my husband in the true sense — that of the spirit — 
though you were master of the flesh. And you only. From 
the day I promised to become your wife, I have been 
faithful, in speech and act. It was by my wish that Pierrot 
left London and was transferred to Warsaw. When he 
returned, he was my friend — nothing more. This I swear. 
Once, on our visit to Monte Carlo, I deceived you in a 


304 


TORQUIL’S SUCCESS 

small matter, lunching with him without your knowledge. 
When you left us in a huff, I sent him home, out of tempta- 
tion. Otherwise, my conscience is clear. Yes, according 
to my lights, I’ve played fair — and I’ve suffered. It was 
torture sometimes. You've had your revenge in full, Tor- 
quil. 

“I suppose this is not at all the letter an erring wife 
should write to her husband, but I don't feel I’ve been your 
wife.' Passion alone is not binding. The only chance for 
us was an intellectual companionship. When this failed, I 
was simply your mistress. I dare say I'm a great deal to 
blame, but I’ve no regret, now it’s over. A dark river; 
I have crossed it. In my philosophy of life, experience 
must include pain. It is the sharp point of the compass 
controlling the perfect circle of pleasure. 

“For any suffering I have caused you, I'm sorry, but 
some day you will thank me. You must get closer to life, 
Torquil, sink your pride, look below the surface. Caste is 
nothing — it’s manhood that counts. This last book is un- 
worthy of you. Honestly, and as a friend, I tell you this: 
you’ve a spark of genius, but you’re stifling it under your 
misconception of the value of the world’s opinion. Cut free 
and start again. Yes, it is I, your ‘sinful wife,’ who tell 
you to live more finely. 

“Fiammetta Lyddon.” 

The hated name roused in Torquil the old instinct for 
revenge. Now he would drag it through the mud! The 
world should know this damning story about the woman it 
had worshipped, in shameless detail, no feature missing. 
Lyddon’s sister — a “wanton” from birth! But even as 
he framed the word with a bitter satisfaction, he saw the 
pitfall he had planned. Ah, she was clever! She had 
guessed that Torquil would never disclose the fact that love 
had held no place in their contract; that he had been her 
tool and dupe. It was to own to a defeat greater than any 
victory. 

Yet divorce her he would. He must be free. He was 


THE VACANT COURTS 


305 


roused at last from his lethargy. He must leave this house 
at once, put himself right with the lawyers. He felt that 
sudden fever for action which, in nervous temperaments, so 
often succeeds a shock. He went back to his bedroom and 
began to pack like a man possessed. As he piled the clothes 
into his trunk he made his plans. He would go to Chelsea 
until the legal machine was started, then out of London — 
the quiet country. 

Westwick rose up before him and his old dream of 
writing a book in the tower sacred to Sister Ann, at the end 
of the long herbaceous border, filled with flowers and the 
murmur of bees. Josephine. He would go to her, lay his 
burden at her feet. Josephine would understand. He 
would see the stars shine in her eyes, hold that hand like 
a willow leaf, whilst the wind played tricks with her lavender 
gown and ruffled her ashen-coloured hair. . . . 

A photograph of Fiammetta! He tore it across and 
stamped on it, his anger spurting up again. Her letter was 
the supreme insult. To dictate to him — “live finely” — 
as she lay in the arms of her lover ! She was there in that 
castle on the Loire, utterly shameless, alone with Pierrot. 

But in this he was wrong, as he learned later. She had 
planned her elopement carefully, summoning the Sacri- 
fice, to add an air of propriety, from her dreary duties 
with her brother, a clergyman in a northern parish ; the 
Sacrifice, willing to close her eyes to what lay beneath the 
surface for the sake of the old luxurious life and who had 
built up an elaborate story of her “darling girl’s” unhappy 
marriage, neglected by an unnatural husband who lived 
only for his work. The fact that the feu comtesse, Marie- 
Hortense de Lusignan, had been most unpopular with 
young and old on the estate helped the Sacrifice in her 
pious task. There might be unforgiving neighbours, but 
Fiammetta’s beauty and charm and careless generosity, 
after the deadly monotony of an acknowledged miser and 
bigot, could not fail to take effect within the immediate 
bounds of the Chateau. Romance had entered with Fiam- 
metta — much would be forgiven her. 


306 


TORQUIL’S SUCCESS 

Of this, at present, Torquil knew nothing. His whole 
soul was bent on flight. At last it was finished, his luggage 
downstairs, a taxi waiting at the door. He told the chauf- 
feur: “Victoria Station/’ and got in, without explanations. 
The servants would know soon enough why he had left the 
house. At the bottom of Park Lane, he leaned out and 
altered their course. The taxi, piled with his luggage, 
throbbed along towards Chelsea. 

Miss Withers received his explanations in a flutter of 
excitement. Workmen again? His wife abroad? She 
was flattered, but full of domestic worries. No meals ex- 
cept breakfast? She drew a deep breath of relief. The 
last box was bumped down and the taxi-driver went off 
grumbling. He expected better of Park Lane — but Torquil 
paid with his own money! 

‘Til unpack later,” he told Miss Withers, “if you’ll have 
my luggage taken up. I’ve got to go down into the coun- 
try immediately after lunch.” 

“I’ll see to it, Mr. Torquil. Perhaps a runner?” She 
bit her lip. 

He left her facing the pile in the hall, with the vague 
assurance: “If it’s needed.” 

When the door had closed, scrupulous, she carried the 
lighter luggage herself. There were many things a lady 
must do against the grain in these days, when servants 
were so “difficult.” 

“Pm glad my poor father can’t see me!” Miss Withers 
panted, grasping a suit-case. “But I simply daren’t ask 
Ireen. She’d give me notice on the spot !” 

Torquil lunched at the station frugally, took his ticket 
and sauntered on to the platform for Westwick. A train 
came in on the opposite side and out sprang a young sailor, 
gripping his bundle, his blue eyes searching the crowd with 
that far-off, prophetic look which comes to those who live 
on the waters. A woman brushed past Torquil in the 
“best clothes” of the poor that ignore the changing laws of 
fashion yet hold a pathetic dignity. 

“Hullo, mother!” the sailor hailed her. 


THE VACANT COURTS 


307 


Torquil heard her gasp of relief, saw the thin arms go 
up convulsively round her son, who bent his head and 
awkwardly kissed her. 

He turned away, a lump in his throat. For the first time 
he realized that his mother was gone, beyond recall. There 
was no one in the world who loved him, no one who cared 
if he lived or died. He had not a friend on whom he could 
count to give him a sincere welcome, with the exception of 
Josephine. Why was that? He shrank from the truth. An 
immense loneliness possessed him. 

His thoughts swerved back to his mother, and the strange 
parallel between her case and Fiammetta’s. But his mother 
had been honest; the man she married had known the 
truth. She was by far the finer woman. Torquil felt a 
thrill of pride. Yet he had been ashamed of her. . . . 

As the train bore him into the country, he was conscious 
that his mood changed, gave place to a rising excitement. 
If Josephine cared She must care since she had for- 

given him. In time he would overcome that “incurable 
loyalty” to which Mrs. Rollit had referred. He would 
take rooms in the village, and read his work aloud to her 
in the long summer twilights on the bench facing the church 
spire. A sudden fear shot through him. What if his gift 
had gone for good? He had not written a line for weeks. 
Where did it come from? Who controlled it? In vain his 
reason protested against the sudden flood of superstition 
that threatened to submerge him, as he watched the little 
green fields of England slip gently past the windows. He 
would go south with Josephine, find his soul again with the 
first rustle of the palm-leaves dried by the sun, the first 
scent of mimosa shedding her golden dust. 

No wonder he had felt stirred by the beauty of that 
southern shore — the call of the blood! Marseilles, his 
father's birthplace. Yes, it explained many things, that 
Latin strain in his character. He was the sport of Heredity. 

There were no cabs at the station, but he welcomed the 
walk. Exercise would clear the fog from his brain — this 
curious, haunting sense of loss. Would he ever be able to 


308 


TORQUIL’S SUCCESS 

write again? It would be an excuse, too, for his visit: a 
“day in the country and a tramp.” Later, he would confide 
his trouble, ask Josephine to decide whether he should 
divorce his wife. If she said “yes,” he would know she 
wanted him_ freed, to marry again. 

The dust rolled down the long hill that had its birth in 
the town, an ugly road with straggling villas which at last 
gave place to a farm. He was glad when he left behind him 
the endless line of telegraph poles and entered the curving 
lane that ran up and down on a wave of the Chilterns until 
it reached the highest crest. He could see now, far off, 
under an archway of delicate green, Sister Ann, patiently 
waiting. 

As he drew near he experienced a shock. A black board 
was suspended under the closed window; a notice that the 
house was for sale, blatant, in white lettering. He hurried 
on, beneath the wall. For sale? It seemed a profanation. 
At last he reached the short drive. A wire-haired terrier 
rose stiffly from the mat outside the porch and barred his 
approach, with a hollow bark that proclaimed both age and 
irritation. He looked so aggressive that Torquil paused. 
Then he heard Josephine’s voice: 

“Rough? Good boy! What’s the matter?” 

A note of lavender caught the eye and she appeared in 
the doorway in a loose overall of that colour, the breeze 
stirring her soft hair. 

“Why, it’s Torquil !” She stood there, amazed; re- 
covered herself and held out her hand. “Come in ! We’re 
in a dreadful muddle — packing up! I’ve sold the house.” 
She stooped as she spoke to soothe the dog. “It’s all right, 
Rough. It’s a friend.” 

The word moved Torquil strangely. All his prepared 
speeches vanished. 

“A friend in trouble.” His voice was husky. “I’ve 
come to beg for your advice.” 

The smile vanished from Josephine’s face. To beg? 
Torquil! It must be serious. 


THE VACANT COURTS 


309 


“Come in and tell me all about it?” She spoke gravely, 
without comment, but he could feel her sympathy as she 
led the way indoors, the terrier, docile, in her wake. 

The hall was full of packing-cases, the carpets rolled 
back from the stairs. Torquil followed the pair in silence 
until they reached the library ; changed too, the mirror gone, 
the long shelves denuded of books. He looked around at 
the desolation. 

“Isn't it dreadful?" said Josephine. “I feel like a mur- 
deress !” 

How quick she was to read his thoughts. 

“But you're here. So nothing matters." He saw the 
colour rise in her cheeks. Incredibly young she looked, in 
that schoolgirlish pinafore! And once he had condemned 
her as old, in comparison with Fiammetta. He blurted out 
his secret thought, “You’re always the same!" as he sat 
down in the chair opposite her own, the only seats in the 
stripped room. 

“Am I?" Josephine smiled. “I suppose it’s the quiet 
life I lead. Tell me what is the matter, Torquil? I can 
see that you are worried." 

He passed a hand across his temples. How should he 
tell her the sordid story? Again he felt a lack of words, a 
void where once had been quick phrases that sprang to his 
tongue without effort. 

“My wife’s left me," he said at last. “It seems she’s 
always cared for a man. She knew him before we met." 
He had not meant to tell Josephine this, but the truth 
slipped out in her presence. “And now she’s gone off with 
him." 

“Oh, Torquil !” Her grey eyes were full of a shocked 
comprehension. Pity and pain stirred in their depths. 
“How dreadful! Wouldn’t she — come back?" 

“No." He looked away from her, through the window 
across the green lawn to where the sky was pierced by the 
spire. “I don’t think I want her back. It was all a mis- 
take. Infatuation — ambition, perhaps? God knows." 


310 


TORQUIL’S SUCCESS 

A short silence fell between them. He could hear the 
hard beat of his heart. Josephine broke the spell; she 
seemed to be speaking her thoughts aloud : 

“So it hasn’t brought you happiness ?” 

“What?” He looked at her curiously. 

“Your success.” 

“I haven’t succeeded,” said Torquil. 

He got up and walked to the window, teeth set, his face 
hopeless. Over his shoulder he went on : 

“I’ve sold books by the thousand — what’s that? The 
general public’s no judge. My last novel is an insult to my 
intelligence. Needless to say” — his lip curled — “it’s the 
most popular of all ! And now, I’ve lost the creative power. 
It’s gone — I can’t write a line. I can’t even control my 
speech. I’m down and out, Josephine.” 

“No!” She had risen from her chair. She stood be- 
side him. He felt a hand slip through his arm and he 
stiffened. He was afraid of breaking down. “If you were 
contented, I might believe it. I’ve lived among authors, 
and I know. When you feel that your work is poor, it’s 
because you have the material in you and the power to do 
work that counts. That’s the right ambition, Torquil. Not 
success, but the hourly struggle to express the best that in 
you lies. It’s what I’ve always hoped for you.” 

“But it won’t come.” His voice choked. He felt her 
fingers slip down until they found and captured his own. 

“It will.” She spoke to him like a mother, soothing a 
child that has had a fall. “You’re finding yourself and it’s 
hard. Didn’t I tell you once, Torquil, that behind the work 
must be the man — that you needed humanizing? I think 
suffering 'has done it. I shall watch for a great book from 
you.” 

He wheeled round, his face white. 

“You believe in me — still?” 

“I do.” The stars in her eyes shone. “It needed trouble 
to clear your vision. But you have the gift — God gave you 
the gift. Be grateful, and the rest will follow.” 

“Will it?” He caught her slackening hand between his 


THE VACANT COURTS 


311 


own, searching her face. He could see a subtle change in 
it since the last time they had met. This was not the 
Josephine of reality, this was the dream: his conception of 
her in his book, a woman awakened from long slumber to 
a new understanding of life — and love. Words trembled 
on his lips. Should he tell her now? Risk everything 

But suddenly she turned her head. Some one was calling 
her by name: 

“Josephine, where are you?” Heron appeared on the 
threshold, a screw-driver in his hand. Instinctively Torquil 
loosened his clasp of those fragile fingers. They fell to her 

side. “I want those screws Hullo!” He was aware 

of the second figure, standing, rigid, in the window. 

“You remember Torquil?” said Josephine quickly. 

“Of course! How are you?” Heron came forward, 
hand outstretched, surprised but cordial. “It’s a long time 
since we met. Good of you to look us up.” 

Us? Torquil stared at the speaker. Heron, aware of a 
strain ir^ the air, ran on cheerfully : 

“You find us in an awful mess. We only got back from 
Cornwall last week — cut our visit short, in fact, as there 
was an offer for the house.” Still Torquil made no com- 
ment. Heron gallantly persevered. What was the matter 
with the fellow? “Of course, we’re living at the cottage, 
but we’re here all day packing up. That is to say, my wife 
packs and I run round like the clown at the circus! And 

lose things ” He turned to her, laughing. “Where are 

those screws, my dear?” 

But Josephine was looking at Torquil. 

“You didn’t know?” 

He shook his head. He felt giddy and stupefied. In a 
dream he saw Josephine interpose herself between him and 
Heron and heard her say, as she hustled her husband almost 
forcibly to the door: “You’ll find them on the pantry 
table. And while you’re about it, tell £lise we could do 
with a cup of tea, darling.” A swift glance passed between 
them. Yes, those two were really married — one, beyond 
the need of speech. 


312 


TORQUIL’S SUCCESS 

He tried to pull himself together. Tongue-tied, he 
watched Josephine return, her cheeks faintly flushed. 

“I hadn’t heard,” he said lamely. 

“It was a very quiet affair. We’re quiet people.” She 
smiled at Torquil. “David writes and I garden — that’s the 
measures of our lives.” 

“And you’re happy?” He brought it out with an effort. 

She nodded her head, avoiding response. She felt guilty, 
sensitive to the contrast between her own state and that of 
the man before her, deceived and deserted by his wife. In 
her simplicity, she did not guess that she was involved more 
closely in his present trouble, nor all he had hoped from 
her welcome and her old friendliness. 

In despair, he drew out his watch. 

“I must go. I have to catch a train.” 

“Now? But you’ve only just cornel” She looked 
puzzled and distressed. “Can’t you wait for a cup of tea? 
It’s only a picnic meal — like our picnics at Les Lecques, 
but not half so picturesque !” She saw him wince and was 
conscious herself of an increasing nervousness. “Anyhow, 
you must see the garden.” She opened wide the French 
windows. 

“Yes,” said Torquil, “I’d like that. To say good-bye to 
Sister Ann.” He stepped out on to the path. 

“That’s the worst wrench,” said Josephine. “When I 
see strange faces at the window, I shall feel like one of 
Bluebeard’s wives! Still, I can come here on moonlight 
nights when nobody is about and talk to her from the 
lane.” 

“She’ll miss you.” A lump rose in his throat. Never 
would he write there, with the scent of lavender around 
him. 

They walked in silence across the lawn, through the 
latched door, to the kitchen garden. The apple blossom 
was nearly over, the long border full of spikes of juicy green 
and the promise of flowers. But Torquil had no eyes for 
these. Once more a gust of wind met them and he saw 
Josephine resist it, head bent forward, lavender skirts swept 


THE VACANT COURTS 313 

round her fragile form. But he did not attempt to help 
her now. She was Heron’s. The dream was over. 

At the end of the gravel path he halted. Here was the 
entrance to the lane. 

“I can get out this way, can’t I?” 

“If you want to.” She studied his face, distressed. 
Heron’s sudden interruption seemed to have scattered con- 
fidence, Torquil aloof and preoccupied. She yielded to her 
growing impulse. “Torquil, don’t lose heart! Everything 
will come right. I feel it. I’m — so sorry. But — will you 
send me your next book?” 

He forced a smile. 

“Certainly. When it’s written. You may have to wait.” 
He looked up at the peaked roof of Sister Ann, the grey 
stone beautiful against the trees from which came the call 
of a pigeon. “Will you do me a last favour?” 

“If I can.” Her face was very earnest. “I’d do any- 
thing to help. You know that, don’t you ? And that you’ll 
always find me here — if you ever need a friend.” 

“I know.” He held out his hand to her. “But all I 
want just now is to see you leaning out of the window there, 
as I saw you first. Do you know what I called you? The 
Spirit of the West wind! A memory that I’ve treasured.” 

For a moment she looked startled. Torquil’s face had 
betrayed him. He read her thoughts and drew back with 
a fierce effort of control. 

“ 'Copy !’ ” He smiled. “The eternal quest. It’s not 
very much to ask, Mrs. Heron.” 

“No. Of course I’ll wave to you — speed you on your 
homeward journey. I wish I could send you to the station, 
but the car’s in hospital — something wrong with the brake.” 
She spoke rather rapidly to cover her absurd fancy. She 
mustn’t confuse sentiment, the romance of an author, for 
anything deeper. “You’re sure you won’t turn and have 
tea with us?” 

“I mustn’t.” He opened the door behind him. 

“Then come again — to the cottage?” 

“Some day. When things clear up.” He saw her shiver, 


314 


TORQUIL’S SUCCESS 

for the air had grown chilly with the approach of evening. 
“You’re catching cold! Do go in. There’s Sister Ann 
frowning at me! I won’t say good-bye. I — can’t” He 
stepped back and closed the door almost roughly in her face. 

Half-way up the lane, he turned. She was there, leaning 
out, a pale ghost against the shadows that wait on the sun- 
set hour. Torquil stood for a moment bare-headed, like a 
man on entering a church, with the same instinct of rever- 
ence. Then he wheeled round and plodded forward. There 
was nothing further to hope or pray for. 


CHAPTER XXVII 


N IGHT had fallen. Torquil sat at the rickety table 
in the window of his bare Chelsea room. In the 
deep blue of the sky stars were appearing, one by 
one. A white-capped nurse stole out on to the hospital 
balcony for a breath of purer air. With a sudden shattering 
of the silence, a fire-engine emerged from the neighbouring 
station — like a dragon with glittering crest from its cave — 
to wheel round with a clanging of bell^ into Church Street 
and Fulham Road. Fainter grew the alarum, and peace 
settled down again over the dew-spangled lawns. 

Torquil, head propped on his hands, was reviving mem- 
ories, bitter and sweet. Once, a brief smile curved his 
lips as his thoughts turned to Carrie. Not even this last 
link with the past had been wanting to complete the day. 
He dwelt on the incident with a curious absence of resent- 
ment for Carrie’s singular lack of taste. It seemed already 
far away, trivial and unimportant, yet, unknown to him, it 
marked a definite milestone in his life. 

Toiling up the steepest hill in the crooked lane, he had 
heard behind him the sound of approaching wheels and had 
stepped aside on to the grass to allow the vehicle to pass. 
But the dog-cart stopped, and a voice hailed him: 

“How do you do, Mr. Torquil? You see, I’ve remem- 
bered your name, although you’ve forgotten me ! You came 
to tea once at our house. I’m Colonel Brackney’s niece.” 

“Of course!” Torquil emerged from his dream. Carrie, 
at least, was real. Too real, in a covert coat, hopelessly 
creased, with a limp collar, a felt hat wedged down on her 
head and supported by the carroty bun in its torn net, wisps 
escaping. Carrie, draggled but coquettish. 

315 


316 TORQUIL’S SUCCESS 

She had offered Torquil a lift to the station. He accepted 
it indifferently. He was tired both in brain and body. He 
clambered up to the seat beside her. She flicked the cob 
and it bounded forward, Carrie bumping against Torquil. 

“Sorry ! He always starts like that. I suppose you’ve 
been to see Mrs. Heron?” She straightened her hat with 
her whip hand, and the lash shot out and stung his cheek. 
“Sorry!” said Carrie again. 

“It’s nothing.” Torquil ignored her question. He was 
not going to talk to her. Above all, of Josephine! It was 
bad enough to sit beside her in this close proximity. But 
Carrie was conversational. 

“It’s a long time since you’ve been here. I suppose when 
Mr. Merriman died, Westwick lost its main attraction?” 
Ever jealous of Josephine, she was hoping he would say yes. 
As he did not reply immediately, she went on, with a sly 

glance, “Some changes there Hold up, Grampus!” 

She dragged at the reins as they commenced the steep 
descent. “Loose stones,” she explained to Torquil, “and 
he’s a clumsy old fool! That’s why we called him "Gram- 
pus.’ Rolls, you know, and won’t look where he’s going. 
What was I saying ? Oh, yes. About the Herons. They’ve 
sold the house, so I hope, now, we shall get some really 
decent neighbours. Young people — to stir things up! It’s 
pretty deadly for me at Westwick, but I’ve got to look after 
the old folk. My duty — and I do it.” 

Torquil nodded. There followed a pause. He must say 
something. He searched his brains for a suitable topic. 

“How are the pigs?” 

“I don’t keep ’em any longer. I’ve gone in for breeding 
dogs,” Carrie informed him. “Spaniels. They pay.” A 
light came into her freckled face and she turned to him 
hungrily. "‘I suppose you don’t want a dog? I’ve a nice 
puppy — a little lady — left over from the last batch. Make 
a good companion. I’d let her go cheap — for you.” She 
gave him a glance that startled Torquil. He hastily dis- 
claimed any desire for a lady companion. 

Carrie, disappointed, resumed. 


THE VACANT COURTS 


317 


“Well, you might think of me if you hear of anyone. 
I tried to sell her to Mr. Heron. It’s time he got rid of 
that dog of his — no teeth and full of complaints ! 1 shouldn’t 
care to have him about. But he wouldn’t — was quite absurd. 
Not even to train as a substitute. Said Rough would be 
'jealous’! And Mrs. Heron backed him up. Nonsense, 
isn’t it?” 

Torquil frowned. 

“I think she was right. Old friends should come first.” 
Carrie gave an annoyed sniff. 

“Oh, of course, you’re one of her admirers! Not that 
she’s got so very many — had to fall back on David Heron. 
But that’s a pretty ancient story. It wasn’t a surprise to 
Westwick. I wonder they didn’t go off before!” 

Torquil felt his gorge rise. 

“Why shouldn’t she marry him? He’s a brilliant man, 
and a gentleman. You talk as if Mrs. Heron had run away 
with a groom.” 

It was said in all innocence, but the effect was amazing. 
Carrie jerked the reins so sharply that the cob stopped, 
hoofs grating on the hard and stony road. The whip swung 
out and cut his shoulders. The bewildered animal plunged 
forward down the hill and the cart rocked and bumped on 
its worn springs. Carrie gave Torquil a venomous glance 
and seized the first weapon to hand. 

“Talking of grooms” — her voice was acid — “reminds 
me that a friend of mine, Mrs. Delaporte, had one who 
said he knew you — had lived in the same town ! His name 
was Oliphant and he came from a place called Ovingdale.” 

“Really?” Torquil looked indifferent — felt it too. He 
didn’t care. He seemed to have passed some grim frontier, 
to look back on life from the other side, a detached, in- 
curious spectator. “Oliphant? I remember him.” 

Carrie took this for a pose, though she was amazed by his 
acquiescence. She felt balked of her revenge and proceeded 
to follow up the attack. 

“Oh, you do? Small world, isn’t it? It was rather a 
score for me though, telling Mrs. Merriman — as she then 


318 TORQUIL’S SUCCESS 

was — your real name. She only knew your pew — pseudym 

What’s the word? Your publisher’s wife! I was 

surprised. A great score!” 

“It must have been,” said Torquil coolly. He was trying 
to analyse his sensations. It hadn’t affected Josephine’s 
conduct. Had Merriman known? Even here, he felt no 
concern. It belonged to that other side of life, a picture 
already blurred. 

Carrie watched him, discontented. Nothing annoys the 
mischievous so much as a shaft that fails to sting. She had 
no more arrows in her quiver. Sulkily, she drove on in 
silence. As they neared the town, the cob slowed down. 
He had little confidence in his driver, and still less respect 
for her. She allowed him to snatch at a hedge, staining his 
bit with a leafy lather, whilst she flirted with some young 
farmer leaning over a gate on the lane. The Colonel would 
never permit this, nor allow Grampus to break his paces. 
Yet he loved the Colonel and welcomed that sure and 
masterful touch on the reins. The last time he had come 
to town in Carrie’s charge he had narrowly missed collision 
with a load of timber on a cart that persistently barred their 
progress. He dropped into a rolling amble. 

Carrie whipped him — to no avail. She was already re- 
gretting the impulse that had wrecked a chance of flirtation 
with this good-looking young author. Men were so rare 
in Westwick! She tried to atone for her mistake. 

“I hear your new book’s splendid. I haven’t read it 
myself yet, but the Rector’s promised to lend it to me. 
You must make a lot of money!” It was Carrie’s highest 
measure of praise. 

“Yes, it pays,” said Torquil obliquely. 

They drew up at the station. 

“If you see Uncle Tom on the platform,” Carrie became 
fussy, “will you tell him that I’m waiting ? He comes in 
by the train you go by — the 5.10. There’s plenty of time.” 
She was hoping to detain Torquil for a last gossip by the 
dog-cart, but, already on the pavement, he held out his 
hand to her. 


THE VACANT COURTS 319 

“Certainly. I’ll look out for him. Thank you so much 
for your lift, Miss Brackney. Good-bye.” 

There was nothing to be done. Mortified, she watched 
him go. What nice, straight legs he had! If only she’d 
been more prudent, she might have arranged to meet him 
again on one of her rare visits to town. And she didn’t 
even know his address. 

Torquil drew a breath of relief when he found himself 
alone on the platform. Carrie reminded him of a limpet, 
that prefers the foul harbour water and clings to the nearest 
keel. In due course the train puffed in, dislodging some 
dingy-looking folk and, at a distance, Colonel Brackney, 
erect and thin as a peeled wand. 

Torquil reintroduced himself and delivered Carrie’s mes- 
sage. The Colonel, courteous as ever, insisted on finding 
him a carriage and stood at the open door with the air of 
a host speeding a guest. It wouldn’t hurt the cob to wait. 

“I very nearly missed this train,” he told Torquil cheer- 
fully. “I’d been lunching with an old friend who has 
settled outside Ribington, and, as we drove in, we saw a 
fire and turned down to look at it. A big blaze — some 
printing works — and the engines had arrived late. The roof 
had already fallen in. I’m afraid it will be completely 
gutted. Luckily, no lives lost and the place was insured — 
so the constable told us.” 

“Ribington?” Torquil was thinking. “Not Abbott and 
Leatherweight’s ?” 

“I believe that was the name,” said the Colonel. “I hope 
you’ve no interests in it?” 

“Indirectly. My book’s being printed there — the second 
impression,” replied the author. 

“Dear me!” The old man looked grave. “I’m sorry. 
Will it mean a loss?” 

“No, merely a delay. It’s of no consequence.” Torquil 
held out his hand, for the porter was slamming the doors 
as he passed. “We’re off! Good-bye, sir.” He watched 
the Colonel step back, give a last wave, and march off, 
defiant of age, the station-master touching his cap. 


320 


TORQUIL’S SUCCESS 

His own words recurred to him now as he sat, peering 
into the darkness faintly wanned by the starlight: “It’s of 
no consequence.” 

Yet a week ago it would have caused him both worry and 
irritation. There would be a serious break in the sales of 
Quenched Fires whilst his publisher sought to replace the 
burnt edition. There were “fires” which could not be 
“quenched” ! The capricious fancy caught him. And others 
that burned themselves out. Like his passion for Fiam- 
metta. Why was he so indifferent? What had happened 
to change his whole outlook? He could find no answer to 
the riddle. 

A fresh picture rose up before him; another ghost from 
the past. 

He had walked part of the way home avoiding the crowded 
buses. Outside the Brompton Oratory he had encountered 
Lady Mary returning from some evening service. He saw 
her first, a few yards off. Would she cut him? He didn’t 
care. To his surprise she bowed as usual with that absent, 
shining air of hers, wrapped in a secret contemplation of 
mysteries unshared by the world. She had even smiled 
faintly at Torquil. 

“She won’t condescend to a quarrel,” he thought. But 
he felt no remorse or annoyance, no pricking of his sensi- 
tive pride. It didn’t count. Nothing counted. 

Torquil shifted his position, aware of cramp in his long 
legs. Through the silence he could hear a whispering below 
his window near to the area gate; “Ireen” saying good- 
night to her lover. Then the back door slammed and a 
hush succeeded. Unconsciously, he gave a sigh of relief. 
He was aware of a change in himself, but he could not yet 
disentangle the cause. It was not Fiammetta — she seemed 
to belong to an unreal and distant past. Josephine? No, 
that was over. The perfect romance — he had never pos- 
sessed her. Unattainable, she was more dear. She had 
been his, undefiled, in The Shepherd on the Heights. It was 
better so. Nothing mattered. 


THE VACANT COURTS 


321 


He stared out across the Square and the low, uneven roofs 
to the widening bowl of the heavens where fresh stars traced 
shining roads. Leading — where? What mighty force con- 
trolled the worlds upon worlds beyond — the ether and the 
eternal space? What lay at the back of all existence? 
Josephine would say it was God. God, to whom the church 
spire pointed — a spire of phallic origin ! Beneath which the 
devout prayed to be “delivered from temptation.” How 
God must smile — if there were a God. . . . 

Gradually, the voice of London sank to rest. The streets 
grew still. Lights were out in upper windows. Only over 
the great town, the reflection of her myriad lamps touched 
the rising mist with a lurid, amber glow. Like the Pillar 
of Flame, Torquil thought, of the Israelites in the Desert. 
By day, too, a Pillar of Smoke — London, the mighty wilder- 
ness where man, outcast, sought in vain for a glimpse of 
the Promised Land. 

Suddenly the dreamer started. From far away came the 
piercing note of a motor horn; some belated car, carrying, 
perhaps, a doctor to the bedside of a dying man. Toot — 
Toot! Then again, silence. 

But the sound had unlocked the magic gates of memory, 
had crossed the frontier. Torquil was back in the past, 
hot-foot, in pursuit of the cue. It seemed to him of some 
vast importance, like a clear call out of the sky. 

The cornet player in Pimlico? That night on which, 
touched by fancy, he had seen Fiammetta pass, crossing the 
bridge to the lagoon, bathed in moonlight, her hair like a 
torch, sparks glinting from her feet, he had heard that 
piping in Shepherd's Market. Shepherd’s? The Shepherd 
on the Heights — pan-pipes? No, it wasn’t that. He was 
missing something — aware of a gap. And in a flash, he saw 
himself in the library at Westwick, a slim volume of verse 
in his hand. Stevenson — posthumous poems! Saw again 
the daisied lawn with, beyond it, the hills, veiled in shadows, 
and the vision of himself crowned with success, “free- 
stepping, tall ” Ah, he had it now! His lips moved: 


322 


TORQUIL’S SUCCESS 

“Until, in singing garments 
Comes royally, at call — 

Comes limber-hipped IndifFrence 
Free-stepping, straight and tall — 

Comes, singing and lamenting, 

The sweetest pipe of all.” 

“Limber-hipped IndifFrence ?” When a man had crossed 
the frontier line of “Love” and “Hope,” desire and fear — 
when “nothing mattered”? Not an end, but a starting- 
point, free of the world, beyond both sneers and caresses, 
beyond pride, beyond money. “. . . singing and lamenting, 
the sweetest pipe of all.” 

Liberty — but at a price ! He could write a book on that. 
A book that would be worth writing. True — every word 
of it. Call it The Escape — no! The Deliverance. His 
cheeks warmed, a sudden thrill ran through him. Like a 
struggling architect who sees in a dream the house he will 
live in, his work finally accomplished, the “House Beau- 
tiful” planned by himself, Torquil began to build. First, 
the foundations, from which the walls rose nobly, enclosing 
the sitting-rooms ; the hall with its sense of light and space, 
the shining sweep of the stairs ; up, up, past nurseries and 
quiet bedrooms that breathed of sleep, to the roof that 
should crown the exquisite fancy, perfect as the roof of 
heaven. 

Words came hurtling through his mind, joined together, 
formed phrases. Every pulse in his body throbbed. It 
seemed to him that a new flood of life poured into his torpid 
limbs ; that his brain was lit up by a torch, vision one with 
expression. A single line emerged from the chaos, persisted 
and would not be denied — the opening words. Blindly he 
groped for his fountain pen and drew the pad of paper to 
him. Unconscious of the action, he tapped the point on 
his thumb-nail. Then, his pen took possession. 

At times it stopped and Torquil frowned. On it would 
go again. He tore off the sheets as he covered them and 
dropped them on the shabby carpet. Once he swore, crossed 
out a line with a thick stroke — it rang false — and, setting 
his jaw, wrote another. He had slipped back to his old 


THE VACANT COURTS 


323 


devices : the hero, a super-man, above all weakness of the 
flesh. He substituted: “avoiding passion, inwardly fearing 
it. It would come between him and his ambition. He had 
been brought up in Fear. The fear of a harsh and jealous 
God, with, behind it, the fear of the neighbours." 

A cold wind blew in at the window, but Torquil, oblivious, 
worked on, annoyed by the stiffening of his fingers and a 
pain that shot up to his elbow, yet without a knowledge of 
suffering. At last, his pen ran dry. He stopped and it 
rolled from his cramped hand. In trying to save it, he 
jerked the table off the wad supporting the warped leg. 
It tilted and a book fell with a heavy crash to the floor. 
Torquil awoke to reality. 

Around him, like leaves in Vallombrosa, lay the closely- 
written sheets — the work of his brains, his creation. A 
miracle! His gift had returned. But h^d it? Was it dis- 
ordered fancy, the confession of a fevered man, incoherent, 
a babble of words ? He must put it to the proof. He went 
down on his knees, collecting the pages and sorting them. 
Setting his teeth, he read them through. . . . 

Thank God! He stared out into the night and, uncon- 
sciously, his lips moved. With a shock, he realized he was 
praying, sending up an appeal for help to a Power greater 
than his own. The old prayer of his childhood: 

“Grant me knowledge and understanding, for Jesus 
Christ, Thy Son's sake." 

No sense in it! How could it matter to an “Almighty" 
God, who had created those worlds upon worlds, that an 
atom of humanity should desire “understanding," for 
“Jesus Christ, Thy Son’s sake?” 

Josephine’s words returned to him : “Be grateful — the 
rest will follow." 

Was it true ? Could prayer be an unseen force that con- 
trolled in some mysterious fashion the destiny of a man? 

“I give it up!" said Torquil at last. “All the same — 
thank God." He added, half-ashamed, “I mean it," and 
proceeded to refill his pen. 

Aware now of the chill of the dawn, he closed the window, 


324 


TORQUIL’S SUCCESS 

propped up the leg of the table and studied the last page. 
There was no need for alteration. 

‘‘It’s good,” he said between his teeth, “I don’t care if 
it’s never published!” 

The words brought him up sharp. A failure? He had 
to live. But Arkwright — oh, curse Arkwright ! With clear 
eyes he saw him now as an evil influence — a parasite that 
preyed on authors. He hit the table with his hand. 

“I don’t care if I starve! I shall write this book because 

— because ” Words failed him. Suddenly, he threw 

back his head and laughed. “Because I’ve got to — a damned 
good reason.” 

He settled down to his work. 

Slowly the blue died out of the sky, carrying the stars 
with it. Now it looked like a leaden bowl, inverted, over 
the sleeping city. Mysteriously the bowl cracked on the 
edge of the horizon and a streak of light came through, 
primrose-coloured, to spread and spread until the whole sky 
was aglow and up rose the great, gold sun. 

Lamps paled in the streets. Stray cats crept home fur- 
tively and, through the silence, came the rumble of market 
cars. A new day — with its hopes and fears, its vain en- 
deavour, and its achievement. The power of money awoke 
from slumber, the lust of the flesh, the greed for fame. 
But Torquil had left all these behind him. For the love 
of his work, he wrote. 


THE END 


**7 7 6 

K i 












o°" . c ^ % 


v u 



, no’ v* 

/ « * \ v ft /i 

'/ C*V \* ^ u /* 

<“«*** r 



V> AV a 
A* ,<v « 





*V 


> jlH^’ \ " cA' T> 

* ' s s v'\ ^ J o 

^ * V — />/ ^ ^ o 

-* \ ^ ^ 

\ N rvO C* > . * o 

, i ^ \0 O ft _ rt ^ Ol * 

s S * * ; ^ ^ 3 N 0 ^\v ^ y 


*> 

■* a’ 

* \6 <f * / <. s ' ■ <\ ■ o 

^ 0 N C * ’<* * * a\ . V I 8 * ^ 

' ^ jA * Jfdl//^ * 

*+ ■? : im£,* - •*■„ j. 



■^% iWf 



c^v ^ 

// ■■ » > 
s 

*>, *n 

1 A* 


< 

* 

£ 


o 

7 L 


V > 
\ A 



•>* 



* .uo - o »■ 

* ' '>*> • >%/ • ; •’*$ :; !'>> * * 
r r ^ ^ ** X aV * rC^Jf/ 7 ^ ^ 

w; //l ~ c^* o ^pUfg^ *- </> ^V « ^S \wW/ ' v ^ 

° ° ^ X> ^ 



O " y n M » ^ <0 

* % <?yJL e *,'** 


’ * 


O' 

o 


•y V 

o o x 


«5 ^ ' 

> \ > ^ 

. * ^L' ^ 

0 *' 0 "'*% ,;,N0 ’ V s * *"*»,/•> * 

^ -'^8*'* ■%, A 
v o .dTM. r X ^ « 




\ (V 



^ wjWs <^% \ 

O 0 « ^ 0 N C . "v. ' * * S A \ „ V 1 8 

* a v C ** ^r* 

* *f> 



/ 

* X X, ' * 0 

' ' 0> s s * * * t, *C' 

•#* ^ * X> 


« vv 

° z ^ * V * 

'• x ^ v <V * 
*> ^ •>*. ^ 




*V V 


V*'“ **V 

% <?, o° » c 


c 

-V 

V 


W 



+ o »■ 

<VJ~ ^ ^ 0 N1 0 ^ vV 

V S * * / " M % \ v o 0 

'/ C> V * ^ 0 * 



</> , x 




o? 




